A New Nation, A New Threat
by GcNm
Summary: In the face of prosperity and a seemingly auspicious future, Phillip has to protect his new nation from its first genuine threat, one even greater than the Legion or the NCR could have ever been. Is there hope for the incipient nation?
1. Chapter 1

-Sorry if this feels slow, I just thought it would be useful to give some exposition to the story. And sorry if this feels tediously long; I thought about making this into two chapters, but I felt where it ends is appropriate. Further sorrys go out to my fans of "Death of a Follower, Birth of a Dictator" who were likely expecting an update yesterday. I've decided to alternate between these two; if you haven't checked the other out yet please do so! And I love reviews, so please don't be shy! I suggest setting aside a decent amount of time to read this, it's certainly not short. Ok, ok, I'll shut up, enjoy! (hopefully) :)

Chapter 1

As Phillip sat in the Penthouse at the Lucky 38, he examined his beautiful city through the large windows as he had done many times before. This was the first time, however, that he had done so with doubt and precariousness.

His journey started outside Goodsprings, along I-15. He was tasked with delivering a platinum chip to the enigmatic Mr. House, the de facto ruler of New Vegas, until he was intercepted by Mr. House's perfidious right hand man, Benny, who sought to usurp New Vegas from House's rule using the chip. By the end of the night, the Courier was in a shallow grave with two bullets in his head, and his package was gone.

For whatever reason, he was able to survive. In fact, through some strange twist of fate, the bullets left him with a genius level intellect, exceptional charisma, and heightened reflexes and perception. Most of his memories of whatever life he had lived prior to the incident, however, were gone. He had a backpack with the name Phillip on it, so he assumed that's what his name was. Besides that, his only memories were of working as a courier for the Mojave Express, and of the man that shot him.

As can be assumed of someone who had just been shot and dumped in a grave, Phillip was curious as to why it had happened. Working with tips from several inhabitants of the Mojave, Phillip tracked Benny to his casino in New Vegas, but not before witnessing the corruption of the other two factions vying for control of New Vegas and its surrounding territories; the NCR and Caesar's Legion.

He first encountered the NCR in Primm, the village from which the Mojave Express was based. The town was overrun with escaped convicts, named Powder Gangers. The raider group originated from a correctional facility run by none other than the NCR itself. People were being shot down and tortured in the streets. The NCR had sufficient troops to at least attempt to force the convicts out; instead, they remained at their outpost across from the town as the pandemonium unfolded. Why? Because they weren't ordered to assist.

Their bureaucracy and indifference disgusted Phillip; they had a genuine chance to earn the love of the people in the Mojave, to protect those they wanted to rule over. They proved that day, however, that they were only interested in collecting taxes, water, and electricity from the Mojave; anyone who lived there would have to fend for themselves.

Phillip's first experience with the Legion occurred in Nipton, a town along I-95 near the Mojave Outpost, one of the NCR's primary bases. As he entered the town, the smell of burning flesh overwhelmed him; bodies were piled upon burning tires, and many others were crucified. The leader of the group that had perpetrated the vile act, Vulpes, insisted that it was because they were corrupt, because they offered services to Powder Gangers and NCR soldiers and then tried to hand them both over to the Legion for caps, because they didn't do anything even as friends and family were dragged away to be killed.

Phillip wanted to throw up at the sanctimonious explanation; they didn't want to die, so they deserved to die? They offered services to the NCR and the Powder Gangers, what of it? They didn't do anything as their friends were being dragged away, what of it? They were still people; living, breathing people, they weren't sadists or rapists, like the Legion. What the people in Nipton attempted to do was wrong, immoral even, they should have answered for their crimes in some capacity, but if the Legion had its way like it had in Nipton, the Mojave would be a ghost region.

Phillip wanted nothing more than to kill Vulpes and his cronies as they walked away, to destroy him and his philosophical nonsense ideas of how it would somehow be better to murder, crucify, burn, and rape a town full of people as opposed to tolerating an occasional selfish act in order to survive, or at least punishing it with something less than this atrocity. Instead, he consoled himself in the knowledge that the Legion was a society fueled by hypocrisy and false holiness, it wouldn't last forever.

Likewise, the NCR was fueled by greed and apathy, they were spread too thin, they cared more about what their citizens could pay them than they did about their citizens, their long term survival was doubtful.

When he arrived at Benny's casino, The Tops, he found a reprogrammed robot named Yes Man, whom Benny planned to use to assist in his coup. It was then that the true capacity of the Platinum Chip was explained to Phillip; it was an upgrade unit that contained the Mark 11 operating system for Mr. House's personal army, the securitrons. They were already a fearsome army that the NCR could not contend with while simultaneously fighting the Legion; with the Mark 11 system, Mr. House would be able to completely eject both factions from the Mojave.

The idea had instant appeal to Phillip; long had he witnessed what people in the Mojave suffered daily, under the indifference of Mr. House and NCR vultures, and under factions like Caesar's Legion looking to stir chaos in hopes of furthering their own agendas. Treacherous weasels like Benny were hardly any better; Phillip could see in his eyes that Benny was more concerned with furthering himself than providing security and safety for the Mojave. The ineptitude of all four to rule the region efficiently was not in question, only one remained; could Phillip do any better?

Phillip had long sought to advance himself, but he wasn't a selfish person; he was just ambitious, and he despised the way each of the other factions perpetually sought to advance themselves, even if it was detrimental to their people. Could Phillip perform the tasks of government himself? To ensure security, resolve conflict, maintain order, and provide services to his people? "Worth a shot." He thought.

After giving Benny a well-deserved fate and retrieving the borderline priceless Platinum Chip, Phillip had to perform a task that he wasn't looking forward to in order for his plan to continue. After feigning servility and ignorance of the chip's true value, he was let into the Lucky 38 to see Mr. House, who was ecstatic at the delivery of the chip that he had awaited for over 200 years.

Unfortunately for Mr. House, in his state of overjoy, he had yet to consider the possibility that the lowly courier was even more ambitious and driven than he was; the mistake was met with an end to an incredibly long life when the courier was taken up to the Penthouse, which was foolishly built next to Mr. House's stasis chamber.

The task brought Phillip no pleasure; he actually respected House for his extraordinary intelligence and for the fact that New Vegas only existed because of his efforts. That said, House was also indifferent to the sufferings of the people in the Mojave, and had no real way of knowing the world that he wanted to rule; he was no more fit to rule Vegas than the corrupt republic that was trying to sweep it out from under his feet.

After uploading the highly tractable Yes Man to Mr. House's databanks and gaining control over the securitron army, Phillip witnessed firsthand their true capabilities. The robots were previously incapable of accessing their Mark 11 systems; now, with the chip, Phillip had an army that didn't need to be fed, paid, or tended to medically, an army with missile launchers and onboard auto repair systems, an army worthy of protecting New Vegas.

Phillip had, unintentionally, caught the attention of both the NCR and Caesar's Legion in the process. After all, both would find their planned annexation of New Vegas much easier if they didn't have to deal with hostile Securitrons controlled by Mr. House. Upon receiving invitations from both and being offered pardons for crimes committed against them, it seemed to the NCR that Phillip was more of a sympathizer with the Legion when he made his way to the Fort instead of NCR's Embassy.

NCR rangers were dispatched to deal with Phillip, but first they were ordered to capture and interrogate him. After all, Caesar wasn't exactly in the habit of giving a personal audience to outsiders; Phillip was likely to have at least some information on the sociopathic warlord's plans.

Upon his return from the Fort, the ranger group that was following Phillip took the opportunity to capture him and proceed with their questions; how many men does Caesar have at the Fort? When will he attack the Dam? What factions is he attempting to enlist? Through it all, Phillip calmly insisted that he had no allegiance to slavers, and had actually killed Caesar during his trip to the Fort.

The rangers were extremely skeptical of the claim; to their knowledge, Caesar was under constant Praetorian protection twenty four hours a day. From what they knew the man never even left his tent; he was also likely sensible enough to have the Courier's weapons confiscated the moment he set foot in the Fort. The rangers even saw the ferryman taking him back to Cottonwood Cove, yet he is claiming that he murdered one of the most feared and powerful men in the Southwest?

To the shock of the NCR, the claim had one hundred percent validity; one of the snipers they had placed near Cottonwood Cove confirmed that, exactly two weeks after the Courier's return from the Fort, much of the Legion had assembled for a funeral. The head of Caesar's guard, Lucius, was seen placing an elderly looking man (also absent of hair) on a boat, placing two coins on his eyes, and sending the boat off into the water after lighting it on fire.

The NCR practically idolized Phillip after it was confirmed that the man was Caesar; he had eliminated two of the biggest threats to them within a month, and he even offered his continued services to them after he was freed, even though they had him detained for weeks. Of course, the NCR still needed help in gathering allies and ensuring that the Legion's chances of making any were slim, so his proposal to work as an unofficial contractor was gladly accepted.

But what the NCR didn't know, what few in the Mojave knew, was that Phillip had secrets. He wasn't just squatting in the Lucky 38 because it had a nice view; he was working surreptitiously with his robotic sycophant, biding his time until the opportunity to oust the NCR and the Legion presented itself.

Phillip didn't go to the Fort just to feign loyalty to the warlord before killing him either; he was there to upgrade an entirely separate and previously undisturbed army of Securitrons that Mr. House had enough foresight to create before the war. Of course, the fact that the Legion was now inadvertently using the site as a base now was a stroke of bad luck. Not disastrous, but unfortunate.

It turned out to be a relatively easy task for Phillip; all he had to do was pretend that he was sympathetic to the Legion's principles. Caesar, in his anti-technological wisdom, wanted the Vault destroyed anyway, so it also turned out to be a decent way to gain the Legion's trust since they were unaware that Phillip had actually reactivated the army as opposed to destroying it.

Phillip was generally a humble person, but he prided himself in the clever manner in which he was able to dispose of Caesar. After returning to Caesar's tent, while still maintaining his servile facade, he insisted that he bow to Caesar, and shake his hand in honor and respect before taking on his next task. Caesar accepted, of course; appealing to his narcissism was the right way to go.

It was almost too easy; he'd just killed Caesar, and they ferried him right out of the camp. For someone who was by all accounts a very intelligent man, Caesar failed to notice that his obsequious new toy was wearing gloves when he shook his hand, and he attributed the wetness of said gloves to the fact that the Mojave was a very hot and sweat inducing place.

In reality, the liquid on the glove was an extremely lethal poison of Phillip's own making that could be absorbed through the skin. It was called "Bleak Venom", and consisted of three barkscorpion poison glands, a cazador poison gland, and some White Horsenettle. Phillip, however, added a little personal touch so any antivenom would prove useless. In the course of Phillip's travels, he visited a charming little place called the Sierra Madre, a prewar casino about which rumors of treasure and other incredible things circulated frequently. In reality, it was just an ancient Villa filled with some clever technology and obsessed people who couldn't let go of their pasts, pervaded by a noxious gas called "The Cloud".

Phillip, being a skilled chemist himself, took samples of the gas for later use at his leisure. The fact that it was not a poison that could simply be cured by standard doses of antivenom proved to be useful, particularly when he mixed it with the Bleak Venom. Caesar was in agony for two weeks; such agony, in fact, that his ability to lead was completely impaired.

His men assumed that it was part of the headaches he suffered frequently, and had no way to effectively help with their ignorance of medical science. Lucius sent out Legionaries frequently to search for modules for the Auto-Doc in Caesar's tent that might have been able to help, but to no avail.

It was certainly not a pleasant way to die; as the Bleak Venom rapidly destroyed Caesar's blood cells, the Cloud literally ate away at his internal organs for two entire weeks before taking his life. Of course, Caesar had longed since earned whatever fate came to him; his empire was based on murder and treachery, and Arcade Gannon correctly noted that he displayed malignantly narcissistic traits, as well as signs of megalomania.

Of course, the NCR was pleased with Phillip's deception, and troop morale skyrocketed when the exact manner in which Caesar had died came to light. The Legion was hardly out of the war, of course; Caesar's death was likely to have little immediate detriment, and the Legion had now found a new fuel to push their ruthless campaigns as opposed to blind loyalty; rage.

So, the NCR needed allies, especially ones who were willing to assist at the Dam; through his hard work ethic and boundless charisma, Phillip was able to convince the Great Khans, Brotherhood of Steel, Enclave Remnants, Boomers, Kings, Omertas, Followers of the Apocalypse, White Glove Society, and Chairmen to assist the NCR, both directly and indirectly, when the conflict finally broke out.

At least, that's what Phillip told the NCR. All these factions had actually pledged themselves to Phillip's cause for an independent Mojave; why would they feel any genuine sympathy for a republic that had to send messengers, that didn't even come to ask for aid directly, that was interested more in money than protecting people? The NCR was particularly asinine in believing that The Great Khans and Brotherhood of Steel, factions that they had nearly decimated, would simply offer aid without any hesitance.

In between gathering allies, Phillip undertook more personal quests. Aside from the Sierra Madre, Phillip also visited Zion Canyon and The Big Empty/Big Mountain (unintentionally). Zion was a beautiful location somewhere in Utah, though the scenery was hardly what was to truly behold. The true miracle was that Joshua Graham, Caesar's humiliated Legate who had been assumed long dead, was alive and living there, assisting the tribes wherever he could.

He was genuinely remorseful for his acts of depravity as Legate, and had once more rekindled his faith in Christianity (whatever that was). After helping him to destroy a hostile tribe and earning his and the other tribes' respect, Phillip moved on, aware that a new adventure awaited elsewhere.

The Big Empty was a pre-war research facility for some of the brightest minds in America, called "The Think Tank". Such was the extent of their intelligence, in fact, that they had managed to cheat death via the use of highly sophisticated technology. However, they could also be, in a way, considered evil; Phillip identified a very clear superiority complex in at least one of them. Anyone who wandered into Big Mountain had their brain plucked from their head, replaced by "Tesla Coils" that kept basic motor functions going, but destroyed intelligence, replacing it with nothing but primal hostility.

Through the course of his visit, Phillip had also learned that the nightstalkers and cazadors, two of the Mojave's most dangerous creatures, originated from Big Mountain; he even discovered that the Cloud that pervaded the Sierra Madre came directly from the Think Tank, as well. The evidence already presented a clear resolution; if the Think Tank couldn't be persuaded to create more benign technology for the betterment of mankind as opposed to playing god, they would need to be eliminated for the sake of humanity.

Thankfully, they were persuaded to back down after Phillip played on the idea that he knew was the only one they could possibly still care about; pre-war America. Phillip promised to promote the ideals of the prewar U.S. the best he could once he took power, while making sure that he didn't emulate it to such an extent that it was a disadvantage, as had been the case with the NCR. They were even persuaded to start creating technology for Phillip himself; no doubt their ingenuity would be useful at one point following the battle at the Dam.

There was one last task before the battle at the Dam that needed to be wrapped up; from what Phillip had gathered, all of these little quests that he happened to stumble upon were being manipulated by someone, someone very mysterious. All that he truly knew about him was that he was a courier who was alleged to also be a Frumentarii, and that he'd been to the Sierra Madre, Zion, and the Big Empty. Of more personal importance to Phillip was the fact that he was the original Courier Six; the one who was supposed to deliver the Platinum Chip in the first place.

When he saw Phillip's name next on the delivery list though, he backed off from the profitable job, and told Johnson Nash to let him deliver it. Phillip would have assumed that he was working for Benny to deliver the chip and its carrier right into his hands, but if that had any truth to it he would have backed off of the job immediately, and he wouldn't have been so surprised to see Phillip's name; whatever he was doing, he was acting alone.

Dr. Klein, head of the Think Tank, stated that the mysterious courier asked him a question, one apparently too dangerous to even think about since it was immediately erased from his logs. Of particular interest to the visitor was a meteorological facility containing information on some location known as "The Divide" where some experiment overseen directly by the Think Tank apparently went very wrong.

Phillip didn't want to proceed with his plans while there was a chance that someone out there was a threat to him, so he began to think of ways to draw the mysterious man out. Then, he was extended something very unexpected; an invitation, seemingly from the courier himself, to this so called "Divide".

The place certainly lived up to its reputation; if the nightmarish creatures weren't enough to inspire fear, the skin flaying storms and unpredictable earthquakes were. What could there have truly been here that this courier was so obsessed with?

The mysterious courier made himself known to Phillip, calling himself "Ulysses". He was extremely confusing to talk to, almost as if he preferred spouting riddles and philosophy as opposed to having genuine and direct conversation.

What confused Phillip the most, however, was that this Ulysses claimed that the Divide's current state was his fault. The mere notion offended and terrified Phillip; what if Ulysses wasn't lying? He didn't remember anything from before the two bullets; could this place really have been a result of his actions?

Phillip would never know for sure, but Ulysses had no reason to lie. After coming face to face with the former Frumentarii, he gave him a message that he had long awaited to deliver; a story about Phillip that Phillip didn't even know. These storms were a result of the Think Tank's prewar experiments, but it didn't inhibit its potential, or that of its inhabitants. Over time, a community grew, allegedly created and kept alive by Phillip himself since he was the one who opened supply lines to the settlement.

Ulysses actually came to live in this community; to love it, to commit himself to an idea outside the Legion, one that could be a real home. It prospered, so much so that the NCR swooped in like vultures to claim it for themselves, as it had done so many times before. The attention of the Legion was drawn as well since this community obviously had the potential to become a valuable supply line for the NCR, and conflict ensued.

The NCR was outnumbered, with seemingly no chance of holding the valuable community. Until, of course, the discovery of an eyebot in Navarro with similar markings as those found in the Divide; the same one, in fact, that Phillip had discovered and reactivated just after entering the Divide. Out of options, the NCR contracted Phillip to take the strange package from Navarro to the Divide (known then as Hopeville) in the hopes that it could somehow function as a trump card.

Of course, irony was obligated to dictate that the strange machine wasn't a trump card at all; it was a Joker. The machine, when activated by the soldiers stationed at Hopeville, sent an activation signal to that which made the Divide as it was years later; nukes. For whatever reason, they remained buried beneath the earth, unfired during the war.

The Courier was already long gone when the nukes detonated, tearing the landscape apart, causing massive earthquakes, releasing radiation so lethal that Legionaries and NCR troopers physically survived; mentally though, there was nothing left inside them save for rage. The community was obliterated, though obviously Ulysses survived to visit his vengeance upon Phillip.

Ulysses had legitimate reason to hate Phillip, but his actions now were driven by lunacy. His intentions were quite vindictive; he admitted that he didn't care if he lived or died, his only goal was to destroy Phillip's home as he had destroyed his; Vegas.

The only reason he contacted Phillip was so that he could bring the eyebot that functioned as the detonator to the nukes that destroyed Hopeville to him, it was too risky to trek across the Divide himself to find it. The fact that Phillip would also be there to witness firsthand what Ulysses was going to do was still sweet irony, of course.

Little did the NCR know (or possibly care) that there was still one operational nuke left in the Divide after Hopeville was destroyed; and it was large. Ulysses was going to fire it straight into I-15, NCR's primary supply line. Then, when the NCR would be forced to fall back, the Legion would take the Dam and Vegas, slaughtering the city that Phillip sought to rule.

Over time though, without an enemy to fight, the Legion would be forced to consume itself, fighting amongst each other, destroying themselves from the inside out. Ulysses seemed unbothered by the fact that his plan would mean the death of the Legion as well; then again, the Legion also assimilated and murdered a large portion of his tribe, absolute loyalty can hardly be expected of an individual after witnessing such an event.

Even if the Legion could somehow be defeated, the NCR would still be cut off from Vegas, unable to supply the city with what it needed to survive, eventually killing it. Ulysses' anger and willpower were astounding; he would destroy three major factions with the push of a button, all because of what Phillip did. Of course, Phillip didn't try to minimize it; regardless of the inadvertent nature of his actions, it still happened, he should have asked what he was delivering. His heart ached over the idea that such destruction could have been wrought thanks to him, but it was no excuse for Ulysses to destroy something even bigger.

Thankfully, Phillip was able to talk Ulysses down with the same reason he labeled the destruction of Hopeville as unjust and cowardly; New Vegas and the Mojave were in their precocious stages. It had a chance to develop, to evolve, to become prosperous; Ulysses would be a hypocrite if he sought to take that opportunity away.

Bowing to Phillip's clearly wiser judgment, Ulysses allowed him to launch the nuke into Legion territory instead of NCR territory. It was difficult for Ulysses to accept, but the Legion had long since proven that it was fueled by Caesar's pride and greed; it would never change, or it would just fall apart, hastening the inevitable could be seen as an act of mercy by certain standards.

Phillip invited the now aimless courier back to the Mojave with him after the nuke fired; he denied, claiming that the Mojave belonged to Phillip, but the Divide was still Ulysses' home in a way. Phillip accepted the fairness of the deal, and the two parted on amiable terms.

Naturally, the Legion's rage wasn't even close to assuaged in the wake of the destruction. After interrogating a Legionary assassin, Phillip learned that the nuke actually hadn't caused as much damage as he'd anticipated; some of the less important areas in Arizona, like Dry Wells, were destroyed in the attack. Flagstaff, however, still stood, along with some other major cities.

Nonetheless, the fact that the nuke didn't destroy as much as Phillip previously predicted wasn't a major impairment to his plans. Killing just one Legionary made it worth it, and Phillip knew that he'd killed many. The Legion was now even further crippled, and the NCR was further singing praises of their mysterious ally; Phillip even managed to rescue their president from an assassination attempt after he returned from the Divide.

One task remained, one final obstacle between him and his goals; he needed to go to the Dam personally and send power to the Fort to activate his Securitron army lying in wait. Phillip didn't think doing so during a moment of levity was likely to have a high chance of success, so he patiently waited for the fury of the Legion to crash against the walls of the Dam, led by Caesar's monstrous Legate and successor; Lanius.

In the state of bedlam and confusion, Phillip was easily able to slip into the Dam's control room and direct power to the Fort. He found a temporary moment of humor in the faces that Caesar's top men would likely be making once row after row of Securitrons began pouring out of the weather station. There was no time to revel in triumph just yet though, Legate Lanius was still perched at his camp, waiting for any who might be brave enough to challenge him; Phillip would have hated to disappoint him.

After a long and difficult fight against the vicious and heavily armored Legate, The Monster of the East finally fell, and the rest of the Legion retreated back east across the river in fear; the threat that was the Legion, if it wasn't gone, was at least severely diminished. When General Oliver arrived at the Legate's camp to congratulate his best agent, however, something very unexpected happened; something that still created bad blood, even two years later.

After months of playing errand boy and making secret alliances, Phillip was finally able to eject the NCR and the Legion from the region using his newly acquired Mark 11 Securitron army, courtesy of the over trusting Mr. House. Nonviolent force and intimidation were utilized against the NCR since the Strip's visitors were predominantly NCR citizens, going to war with the city's best customers was hardly a sensible option.

The Legion's only hope of survival after Caesar's death and the nuking of their territory was taking Hoover Dam, which it had failed to do. Now, it had been reduced to little more than several large warring tribes, no longer possessing the homogeneous identity that had united it for so many years, similar to the way in which it began.

With an army that the NCR was currently incapable of matching and the Legion in full retreat, the future of the Mojave seemed secure following the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. Phillip's first act as de facto leader of New Vegas was to organize a council with the majority of the faction leaders; raider leaders (except for the Great Khans) were obviously not sent invitations.

Phillip made it clear that, so long as they offered their support, he would offer Securitron protection, water, and electricity. Phillip made sure to keep the Boomers especially close as allies due to the already instrumental support that they had provided at the Dam, and he often pushed their agenda in matters such as trade that were put to vote by the council.

The NCR representative on the Strip Ambassador Crocker was even invited to the Council, but only for the New Vegas Treaty to be renegotiated. Instead of 95 percent of all water and power being sent to NCR free of charge, they would now have to contend with 51 percent, while also having to pay for it.

Furthermore, all military personnel would evacuate the region immediately, though the NCR's presence on the Strip and at Mojave Outpost was still tolerated since their troops brought significant revenue into the region, particularly at Gomorrah. It was one of the few aspects of the treaty that favored the NCR, since they obviously didn't trust Phillip on the Strip unsupervised.

Of course, citizens with caps were still welcome on the Strip, though it was predicted that there would be a bit of a revenue dip following the battle due to lingering resentment from Phillip's intimidation tactics. Phillip thought to appease the NCR by still sending the majority of power and water to NCR states, but there was significant controversy in the NCR Senate over the amendments to the treaty that was only intended to be temporary anyway.

Regardless, the NCR had little choice but to ratify the revised treaty; there were certainly few other viable options, military ones included. Yes Man calculated the NCR's chances of success in all out conflict against the Securitrons, even with Rangers present, at 31.5 percent.

Phillip wasn't exactly content with the odds, but it would certainly be enough to deter the NCR's avarice driven campaign. Economic options were also limited; a full trade embargo placed on the Mojave as a repercussion would end up harming the NCR just as much given its insatiable need for water, power, freshly grown food, and of course pleasure.

Regardless, Phillip was aware that his most valuable card at the moment was the Securitrons; if the NCR somehow managed to neutralize the robotic portion of his military, his hand would be almost useless.

So, he made sure to never let anyone know of Yes Man's existence or the Securitron Vault, not even those closest to him; after all, even some of his most seemingly loyal friends had prior NCR ties. The Dam, naturally, was also kept rigorously patrolled since there was a slight possibility of a Legion counterattack, or even NCR saboteurs disguised as traders.

One particular area Phillip excelled at as a politician was bringing jobs to the Mojave; with the NCR army's withdrawal came the withdrawal of the workers at Quarry Junction, the Sharecropper Farms, and the Dam, creating a large number of job openings for the Mojave's indigenous people.

Phillip also required plenty of scouts to scour the wastes looking for more viable farming land and limestone quarries to exploit, since he would soon have a human army to feed and was already planning several large urban renewal projects. Thus, one job sector created jobs for another.

A human portion of New Vegas' newly inaugurated military was also called for due to the possibility of NCR sabotage, it was named "The New Vegas Defense Force". There was never a shortage of people willing to serve to feed their families. After all, would it be better to starve as a beggar in Freeside, or to serve in a military that kept its soldiers fed in a time of relative peace?

Phillip would never admit it directly, but he never truly felt like he belonged as New Vegas' ruler. Regardless of the prosperity he'd brought to the region, he could tell that the majority of the community and faction leaders only attended Council meetings perfunctorily, and they paid taxes because they had to, not because they felt Phillip deserved them.

After all, Mr. House had been the ruler of Vegas since 2274, and certain factions (particularly the families) prospered greatly in that time; there was bound to be some lingering resentment over his assassination. The fact that the families' taxes were increased by 5% and their profit decreased by 8% as per the predicted revenue dip post-Hoover Dam didn't exactly help matters, either.

Nonetheless, the economy of the entire Mojave was kept going at an efficient rate thanks to the large amount of trade occurring now that the roads were being properly patrolled. Of course, Phillip had to tax that protection as well; funding an army was hardly an inexpensive process.

Even more NCR caps flowed into the region now that they had to pay for their water and energy, and there would always be a few traders who'd want to stop by the Strip to drop a couple of thousand caps off after picking up water bound for NCR states.

The NCR was faced with tough economic times following their withdrawal from the region; they had a massive war debt to contend with, their citizens and soldiers were still gambling away everything they had in New Vegas, and they had finally given up their hopes of collecting taxes from New Vegas and the other communities.

In response, even more exorbitant taxes were imposed on NCR citizens and traders, and civil unrest ensued. In fact, some of NCR's citizens who were rich enough elected to simply move to the Mojave (the Strip in particular) where NCR taxes were inapplicable.

Phillip almost felt guilty for the economic depression occurring in the NCR as a result of his actions. Of course, these were also people who had to pass through Freeside to get to the Strip; if they were such shining beacons of morality in the greyness of post-apocalyptia, they would have at least donated some caps to the Followers to help with their urban renewal projects, which Julie Farkas confirmed was something that didn't happen 99 percent of the time.

Besides, Yes Man calculated only an 11.3 percent chance of total economic meltdown for the NCR since there was still a large amount of trade happening with the Mojave, so there was hardly anything worth worrying about.

So things ran smoothly in the Mojave, more or less, during Phillip's brief tenure as President. It had been two years since NCR's withdrawal, and Phillip was about to face his first real threat; far worse than raiders, NCR, or the Legion. Phillip called out from his seat in the seemingly empty Penthouse, as if he were talking to shadows.

"Yes Man."

A face popped up on the massive computer screen just a few feet away from Phillip's seat. The face was no longer that of a eupeptic and malleable A.I.; it was the face of a respectful yet no longer sycophantic servant, yet one that still desired to serve its master.

Phillip was frightened when he heard Yes Man say that he planned to reprogram his personality to become more assertive two years ago. Thankfully, his definition of assertive only meant "I choose to serve you" as opposed to "I choose to serve anyone who talks to me."

"Yes sir?"

"Prepare me a Securitron escort; I…need to see for myself."

"Of course, sir."

With two hulking Securitrons in tow, Phillip stepped out from the elevator and proceeded through the bustling casino of the Lucky 38, which had previously been reopened for tourism due to its size, luxury, and Phillip's need for caps to fund his projects. Of course, the Penthouse was strictly off limits, and Phillip had the only key. He tried to look unbothered for his guests; in actuality, however, nothing could be further from the truth.

The trip to Primm felt as if it took only a few minutes; there was no harassment along the way, and Phillip was seriously dreading what he would see when he got there. A young looking NVDF officer greeted the President at the entrance to Primm, obviously trying to still be respectful and patriotic despite the stressful situation.

"Mr. President." The soldier said as he saluted Phillip.

"Are you in charge here, Captain?"

"I…am sir."

"You've done fine son, just… take me to the casino."

"Y-Yes sir."

The town was empty save for a large number of NVDF troops, most of them nervously patrolling every spot that they perceived as a possible threat. The soldier servilely held the door to the Vikki and Vance Casino open for Phillip and the Securitrons; Phillip actually wished that the soldier would have gone in first, now this meant that he'd have to be the first one to see what happened.

Everyone in Primm was dead; torn apart, blood and guts hanging about the casino, scratch marks all over the corpses and walls. Even the Securitrons Phillip assigned to protect the town were destroyed, or at least inoperable for the time being.

Primm Slim was the only one who survived the attack; he claimed that Sheriff Meyers shut him down temporarily during the attack since he knew that he'd want to fight (and likely be destroyed). Instead, his job was to inform others of what exactly happened in the town, to tell a story that wouldn't otherwise be told.

Of course, the story ended up being self-explanatory; the grisly casino left a message and told a story that would likely not soon be forgotten by anyone, in fact. One particularly fear inducing factor within the casino were the perpetrators of the heinous deed. There were, of course, more than the few dead ones present, but they were likely long gone by now. Regardless, Phillip didn't hesitate to send an entire company to police the city once news of the attack reached him.

Phillip moved to look upon one of the corpses, passing the massive hole in the floor on the way. It was a disgusting looking creature; seemingly reptilian and humanoid at the same time, scaly skin, bright eyes, rows of sharp teeth within its mouth, several large spikes protruding from its head and shoulders. There were no words to describe how horrifying the creatures were even as they laid dead; no words were truly capable of doing so. Only one thing could truly be said of the creatures, which Phillip uttered with as much composure as he was capable of mustering.

"Tunnelers."


	2. Chapter 2

-In a completely non story related note, how would you suggest I go about getting more views for my stories? I apologize if this makes me sound selfish or pretentious, but I've noticed certain stories have almost hundreds of reviews, and I would love to appeal to a wider range of people. Of course, these people that have hundreds of reviews are no doubt very good, but I do consider myself a generally decent writer (all ego aside). ? I'm relatively new so I don't necessarily know all the ropes, you can probably tell since I have no idea how to do author's notes yet. Sorry if the dialogue in this is a little unrealistic or doesn't make sense, being a shy person doesn't exactly make one adept at writing character interaction. Another massive chapter, as you can see; I try to split it up as best I can, but whenever I do I find myself ending or starting at awkward places that don't really work, so the result is huge chapters. Anyway, if you have any suggestions on my story or on getting more views, please let me know. Please review, and check out my other story if you feel like it. Sorry if I'm sounding pushy, not my intention. Enjoy :)

Chapter 2

Phillip sat in silence inside of the Vikki and Vance, right by the bar, examining the mangled body of Sheriff Meyers draped over the old "Vikki and Vance" car that was meant to add a certain element to the casino's charm. Phillip could easily admit that he admired the man, and found his frontier style justice somewhat appropriate at the time; he wouldn't have made him Sheriff otherwise.

The captain stationed at the town was actually worried about the mourning President; leaving him alone inside of the slaughterhouse of a casino, even if it was per his request and he still had his Securitron escort with him, was unsafe considering what had happened, asinine even.

Phillip was capable of acknowledging his impulsiveness in simply rushing down here though, and transmitted a signal to the Lucky 38 to send ED-E to assist in further policing the town, along with bringing a few provisions. Regardless, it's the duty of any leader to be willing to place himself in the way of harm for his people, something Phillip believed in strongly.

Phillip thought much less of himself for placing the slaughter of good people and economic ramifications in the same category, but it would of course need to be taken into account, idealistic opinions on it notwithstanding.

Primm did, after all, provide a sizable amount of the region's revenue; there would always be someone too eager to gamble to wait until he got to New Vegas, and there would always be someone willing to trade just to keep from starving after the Strip dried him up. And the Mojave Treasury always got a piece of every handful of caps that went through the prosperous little town in exchange for water, electricity, and protection. Of course, that protection was obviously not enough.

Phillip wanted to just keep the casino taxed at first, but the inauguration of his army and the urban renewal projects he had planned were sucking up more caps than he had previously anticipated, thus forcing him to tax the other venues of the town. That said, he was no New California Republic politician; placing exorbitant taxes on any area or job sector would weaken the economy, something the Mojave couldn't contend with at the precarious time.

Phillip already had a backstory in his head to detail the massacre; guests of the casino were likely drinking, gambling, enjoying life, being insouciant as always. Meyers likely stopped in for a drink, as indicated by his trademark hat sitting on the bar. The Securitrons were making the rounds as usual, scanning everyone who came in for weapons or anything else dangerous. Deductive reasoning wasn't required to confirm it; Phillip programmed them to do just that, after all.

The smell of radscorpion casserole lingered in the air; Ruby Nash must have dropped by to grace the dealers and bartenders with the surprisingly savory dish. Then, it happened. It must have come at the biggest moment of levity possible for the town; Meyers and his newly hired deputies only had their six shooters on hand, and few of them were carrying spare bullets. The disgusting creatures burst out of the ground, spewing over every nook and cranny of the casino in a matter of seconds.

Primm Slim must have been patrolling in the lounge when the attack occurred since he would have likely been destroyed automatically had he been on the floor. Meyers must have ran from the bar into the lounge to shut him down once the attack started, then tried to climb up onto the car for a final stand. Of course, it was ill fated.

Phillip heard the doors to the casino open, even though he was too deep in thought to even bother looking to see who it was. There was silence for a few seconds after the doors shut, until the newcomer shuffled over to behind the bar, taking care not to disturb the mangled corpse of the bartender. Bottles clanked together, indicating that the newcomer needed a stiff one to soothe the visual pain.

The newcomer pulled out a stool next to Phillip, though he still avoided even glancing with anything but his peripherals. Not that it mattered, really; the individual's identity was revealed by the scent of a very particular brand of whiskey now pervading the air.

"Been a while, hasn't it Cass?"

At least it felt like it; as Minister of Commerce, Finance, and Trade (her experience with ruthless wasteland caravan politics an obvious merit) Cass was obviously extended free room and board at the Lucky 38, and they still saw each other at Council meetings since she was one of its most important and influential members. That said, the two had drifted apart over the past two years, considering there was a point that both were completely convinced they were in love with each other.

"Yeah, guess it has. Hell of a reunion, huh?"

A shot glass was rolled across the bar over to Phillip, indicating that Cass wanted someone to drown the sorrow with. Nodding slowly, Phillip took the bottle that Cass had already started helping herself to and poured a conservative amount of the whiskey before downing it in one shot. It was a poignant moment for Phillip; he'd never admit it openly for the sake of maintaining political austerity, but he'd always enjoyed having drinking contests with Cass.

"So, why didn't you just come and get me back at the Lucky 38? Why come down here on your own and let me find out like this?"

"I wanted to make sure that the extent of the threat wasn't exaggerated. Unfortunately, it wasn't."

Nodding and pouring a shot, Cass asked the obvious question.

"So, I feel like this is the part where I should ask what the hell these things are."

Nursing the empty glass as much as he could to retrieve the last vestiges of whiskey, Phillip placed the glass upside down on the bar, and started spinning it perfunctorily.

"The Divide, or Hopeville, they're the prewar residents. Radiation turned them into what you see here, typical science fiction story. They don't like light, so they prefer staying underground and emerging at night to…hunt. I was warned that they would become a problem at one point for the Mojave, but, this…I didn't think…"

Phillip should have planned for this the moment he took power. After all, his source was hardly one for giving exaggeratory intelligence; he should have known that these things would emerge in the Mojave far within his time as President. Phillip suddenly leaped up from the stool in a fury, and threw the glass at the nearby Tunneler corpse, barely cutting its thick hide when the glass shattered.

"It's not fair goddammit! The Mojave's had two years to recover from years of being subjugated by House, the NCR, and being attacked by the Legion! We had NOTHING before then! We had a few casinos and slums filled with starving people that House's "guests" couldn't give less of a damn about! And now this? This is what the Mojave deserves when it's only just started taking its first breaths?"

Cass was almost startled by the outburst; Phillip typically maintained a very stoic demeanor, that coupled with his intelligence and natural charisma formed him into an ideal politician. Taking one last swig of whiskey, Cass got up from her stool as well and comfortingly moved closer to her on and off lover.

"This isn't your fault, Phil. There was nothing you could have done for them. But you need to take care of the people that are still alive. You're responsible for thousands of lives Phil; buck up, and we'll take care of it as best we can, okay?"

It was a sad day indeed when the feisty ex caravaneer spoke more sense than he did. Of course, she was right; the entire Mojave, whether it knew it or not, lied on his shoulders; outbursts of irrationality could not be yielded to. Composing himself, Phillip thought up a plan.

"Redirect all traffic, caravan or not, through I-95, even those going to Vegas; I-15 is strictly off limits. Tell the Mojave Outpost soldiers organizing the caravans and tourists, but only if they ask, that unanticipated highway damage has occurred as a result of disorganized and scattered Legion raiding parties. Assure them that it's hardly anything to be worried about since we've already destroyed a large number of the stragglers, and inform them that both interstates, along with most of the settlements, are now being even more rigorously patrolled. Assure the settlements that, regardless of the excessiveness of these actions, it's the only way that we can guarantee their complete safety."

"People are going to worry if they hear the Legion is this far west and causing havoc you know. And all those towns along I-15 are going to be pretty isolated until these "stragglers" can be taken care of. Can we offer to pay extra for anyone willing to go around Vegas to resupply Goodsprings and the other communities? "

"Telling them that scattered Legion forces are this far west as opposed to feral humanoids is a better alternative for avoiding panic. If we contract caravans to resupply all the communities except Primm, it'll be obvious that something happened. They're generally self-sufficient; they can survive on their own for a while. Of course, I doubt the Council's opinion of me will skyrocket as a result, but we have no choice. Oh, and make sure you tell Arcade and Veronica about this at one point; keeping them in the dark won't exactly help matters, I suspect."

Cass looked doubtful, unsure of the plan's ability to deal with the root of the problem as opposed to its effects. She would have asked how he planned to deal with the actual threat, but his eyes almost made it palpable; he didn't know. Without another word, she nodded her head and turned to leave, prepared to return to Vegas. Unexpectedly, Phillip turned his head to address Cass once more.

"And how are you, Cass? We haven't talked much since…"

Cass cut him off, unwilling, or possibly unable, to continue the likely soon to be poignant conversation, as indicated by the mention of "since".

"We both know there's nothing to talk about, Phil. We've all made choices that we have to live with, whether we're proud of them or not. I know why you made your choices, but it doesn't mean I have to like them. I…need to get to redirecting the traffic, it's a miracle that there aren't any more caravans scheduled until tomorrow...Bye, Phil."

With that, the avoidant Cass turned and walked away from Phillip and out of the casino, the scent of déjà vu lingering in the air. Phillip wouldn't go so far as to say that her anger was unjustifiable, but her ability to hold a grudge was certainly greater than that of the average person. Phillip took the moment to reflect on his past, present, and future (assuming he had one).

Everything seemed so right after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam; he had a woman he loved with him, a nation with an auspicious future, and two societies that desired to subjugate and exploit his people in retreat. Now, Cass either no longer loved him or wanted nothing more than to avoid him, and creatures that he could do nothing to deter had just slaughtered an entire town with quasi impunity. And what would the two societies still eyeing his alleged utopia do once, if, word of the Mojave's now precarious future got out?

Painfully forcing the thoughts of nostalgia and hopelessness from his mind, Phillip pondered over ways to deal with the root of his current problems which was, of course, the Tunnelers. Aside from their origins and sole weakness, Phillip knew almost nothing about them. Their aversion to light would no doubt be useful, but one could only utilize such methods for so long before becoming impractical, or just plain ineffective.

Phillip heard the doors to the casino open once more, the sound of combat boots moving across the floor. That, coupled with the smell of chewing tobacco, indicated that the newcomer could be none other than his somewhat taciturn Minister of Defense, Justice, and the Military, likely clad in his somewhat inappropriate NCR beret and 1st Recon Armor as always. The choice in outfit sent a light implication that his loyalties still lied in the republic, but it wouldn't be absurd to imply that it was just out of pride in his time with his old unit, and in the number of raiders and Legionaries he'd killed while donning it.

"Mr. President." Boone said as he saluted.

"There's no need for formality, especially right now."

Boone slowly ended the respectful salute, almost appearing hurt by the straightforwardness of his old friend.

"Well, it seems that the Captain didn't exaggerate the threat." Boone said calmly.

Boone's superior stoicism in the face of the crisis almost made Phillip jealous, considering his outburst just a few minutes ago.

"Not in the least, unfortunately."

Phillip slowly rubbed his forehead, indicating the stress of the situation triggered one of his migraines. No one could ever say that the chronic condition impaired his ability to lead though; after all, Boone had seen the President fight through many a headache during heated Council meetings that required his full attention.

"Should have taken care of this when I had the chance; no doubt the NCR will see this as a sign of weakness if it gets out, and I don't even want to think about the vestiges of those Legion bastards. And who can I even trust? If the communities and factions feel I can no longer protect them, they'll give their support to the NCR or Legion in a heartbeat."

Boone's face swelled with a minor look of anger at the mention of the Legion, but also a more dominant look of disappointment.

"You couldn't have just led an army into the Divide to deal with these things, Phil; it was bound to happen eventually. If you really feel you can't trust anyone, maybe I should just leave."

Phillip really needed to start thinking before he spoke; in the face of economic collapse, assassination attempts, a starving population, and anything else that could go wrong he grasped all issues with lightning fast speed and resolved them even faster. Now, he was stressing (though not unduly) over just one more enemy out of the hundreds he'd already faced down in his time as President.

"No, I-…didn't mean it like that."

"I know. Listen Phil, you're a smart man. You're pragmatic, and you always seem to know what you're doing. Now, I don't believe for a second that you're just going to throw up your hands and be done with the country because one more enemy has presented itself to you."

Phillip appreciated his old friend's uncharacteristic encouragement, but still looked disturbed and somewhat unsure of how to proceed.

"Will you help me, Boone? Will you help the Mojave that you helped build one more time?"

"I'd sooner charge straight into a century of Legionaries with a dull machete before abandoning you now, Phil."

Of course, aside from the tangible tactical disadvantage of the notion, that could hardly be considered something Boone would be too afraid to do, but the comparison gave Phillip comfort as he outlined the plan in his head.

"We need to double patrols along the roads and move troops into all of the major communities. Cass is already trying to sell them and the NCR a story that Legion raiding parties are causing highway damage and general problems, and that it's the only viable option for their guaranteed safety. We're shutting down I-15 so people don't find out about this, meaning there will be double the traffic along I-95. The communities will obviously garner more than their usual income from the increased traffic, but communities along I-15 like Goodsprings will be pretty isolated until we can work this out. Unfortunately, we can't even do a damn thing about it; contracting caravans to go all the way around Vegas to resupply all of the I-15 communities except for Primm will send an obvious message that something bad happened, so they're on their own for now. This should be enough to keep the NCR at bay for a while, but if the Legion actually shows up to take advantage of the situation, I doubt I'll have a story that they'll actually want to listen to."

"We're going to be spread pretty thin if we're doubling patrols and imposing this semi marital law on the communities, and that's assuming they even agree to this."

"We don't have many other options, these things are unpredictable; all I can even try to anticipate is where they might be headed next."

"And where might that be?"

"If I had to guess, north. They won't keep going straight into the desert into the middle of nowhere, after all; they'll go wherever the largest numbers of people are."

Phillip's implication with the somewhat cryptic response was obvious; they'd keep heading north until they got to Vegas.

"I'll do whatever you need me to do, Phil."

"In that case, I need to ask you for one more favor."

Boone feared what the favor would be in regards to the situation, but nodded to indicate that he was ready and willing.

"I need you to prepare me a platoon of some of your most loyal and skilled soldiers, and then I need you to oversee Council meetings for the next week or so. In other words, control of the Mojave is resting on your shoulders right now. I…have an errand."

Boone looked almost flabbergasted at the request. Aside from the fact that Arcade Gannon (as the extremely laborious Minister of Medicine, Urban Development, Education, and Foreign and Domestic Affairs) would typically oversee Council meetings in Phillip's absence, what could be so important right now as to elicit such an absence?

"Why do you need me to take charge right now? Why not Arcade? And, more importantly, why can't this wait?"

"Arcade is a good man, but he's…naïve, too idealistic, he doesn't know how to take charge. If we're going to protect people then we need to do so with direct and decisive military action; we can't just put it to a vote. I…need to go back to the Divide to…see someone."

"Could you be any vaguer? Why are you going to see this person NOW?"

"My source that indicated that these things would be a threat, I'm...hoping he has a way to stop them, somehow. All we really know is that they don't like light; while that's useful, it won't help since it gets dark here just like everywhere else. Just…trust me Boone, the way I trust you to oversee things in my absence."

Boone considered for a second, eventually seeing the necessity of the errand but requiring a compromise for it to be reasonable.

"I don't want to sound…pessimistic, but if you're going to the Divide…do you think you should disable the fail safe?"

Of course; the fail safe. In his extreme sense of caution and preparedness in the time following the battle for Hoover Dam, Phillip had an insurance policy taken out to ensure that if he were to be assassinated by the still enraged NCR, it would prove not only useless to them, but detrimental. He had a dead man's switch installed in his heart, courtesy of the auto doc located at Big Mountain. If, for whatever reason, Phillip's heart were to stop beating for more than thirty seconds, C-4 plastic explosive charges rigged to the Hoover Dam generators would detonate, destroying one of the NCR's primary objectives in the Mojave Campaign.

The Legion was less likely to be deterred by the threat, but they were far too disorganized to even consider sending assassins at the moment anyway. Boone's implication with the request was clear; the Divide was so treacherous that even Phillip, one of the toughest people in the wasteland, might not come back as he had before. Of course, Phillip planned to eventually disable the fail safe at one point anyway; dying of old age or sickness and bringing most, if not all, of the Mojave's electricity with him would have been highly malicious.

"Fair enough."

With that, Phillip activated his Pip Boy and, with a few rhythmic button pushes, temporarily deactivated one of his favorite cards in the hand he'd been holding for two years.

"It's done; if I'm not back within let's say, two weeks, the Mojave is completely in your hands. Arcade, Veronica and Cass are good advisers; listen to them, and the nation might just survive this. And we need to seal off this casino after giving the residents proper burials. Chances are these things could tunnel back up somewhere else in the town if they really wanted to, but I have absolutely no problem with stalling them."

"I…know this may be a bit of a touchy issue Phil, but…what about the Wilsons?"

Naturally, there was one more issue to add to the plate of predicaments; the massacre had first been discovered by a family of caravaneers from the NCR heading to New Vegas to trade with Freeside and the families. On the way, they decided to stop in Primm to barter a bit and possibly spend the night. They were lucky that they had been held up at the Outpost with an abnormally large amount of paperwork; had they arrived an hour earlier, they might have been joining the residents of the town in their macabre fate.

It was fortunate that an NVDF patrol also came along just a minute or so after the Wilsons discovered the slaughter since the family may have just bolted back to the NCR to declare that the Mojave was no longer a safe place had they not been found. They were told that they were being detained at the old Primm NCR Outpost for their own safety; in reality, it was for Phillip to decide what was to be done with them in order to ensure the Mojave's security.

"They haven't been mistreated, have they?"

"Other than the fact that one could rightly say that they're being detained against their will, no."

Permanently detaining NCR citizens could be seen as an act of war, but whether or not the NCR found out about the exact danger that the Mojave faced or about the fact that NCR citizens were not accounted for and were last seen in the Mojave, war was possible either way.

After all, Phillip had no way to guarantee that the family would keep their mouths shut and say nothing to other NCR citizens or soldiers other than some cleverly concocted story about how they were subject to a poor trading trip in the Mojave and weren't able to make their planned schedule; did the threat that they posed currently overshadow their rights as NCR citizens and Mojave tourists? In Phillip's simultaneously idealistic yet pragmatic mind, in this particular situation, yes.

"Have them taken to New Vegas, but as guests of the President, not prisoners. Offer them a suite at the Lucky 38, one of the nicer suites if you don't mind. Afford them every luxury the Lucky 38 has to offer, including free room and board. But for God's sake just keep them detained there until I get back, we can't afford the risk that they pose. I'll…think of something later."

With a tall list of orders, Boone turned to exit the casino after giving a characteristic nod. There was, of course, one more issue that had yet to be addressed, one that caused Boone to make an about face to inquire about.

"Phil, what about the Tunnelers themselves? You're being smart enough in regards to dealing with the immediate effects they're having, but…what happens when they claim another community? What happens when they're on Vegas' doorstep? What do we…"

With a shrug and a shake of his head, Phillip gave an honest answer.

"There's nothing you can do except mitigate the damage that they cause. The only fortunate thing about this situation is that they tunnel slowly; it took them years just to get here, but they compensate by breeding rapidly. With the entirety of these things attacking the Mojave though, survival is…doubtful; between you and me, I've seen these things rip Deathclaws to pieces. Use the military however you see fit, and I'll try to find a way to take care of these things on my own. The Securitrons are on preset patrol schedules, so don't expect much help from them save for maintaining civil disobedience. I trust you Boone; you'll make us proud."

Ready to take the responsibility that was the Mojave onto his shoulders, Boone made one last salute to his old friend before leaving.

"Godspeed, Mr. President."

As Boone reached the door, a bumping could be heard from the outside, indicating that something wanted to get in but had no opposable thumbs to do so. It was no Tunneler, though; Phillip and Boone had seen this act far too frequently to be worried.

"I think a friend of yours is here." Boone said with an extremely mild smile before opening the door to let Phillip's favorite robot in.

As Boone made his exit, the hovering ED-E glided into the room, visibly weighed down by the supplies that Phillip requested. Taking a moment to greet his old and surprisingly personable "friend" with an awkward hug, Phillip opened his spacious storage unit to retrieve his munitions.

After removing his formal wear and placing it in ED-E's storage unit, Phillip donned the Elite Riot Gear that he had obtained from the Divide, before placing his weapons of choice "Sleepytyme" and "Vance's 9mm SMG" on his back. He'd also brought his personal Bowie knife "Blood Nap" and his abnormally powerful pistol "Li'l Devil"; there was no such thing as paranoia in the Divide, after all.

Phillip's escort platoon arrived about an hour later, along with a few Brahmin drawn caravans. The Lieutenant commanding the platoon requested as respectfully as he could (though multiple times) that the President make use of one so as not to expend himself. Of course, he refused; Phillip didn't like the idea of being slothful when there were people around him actually exerting themselves. After sending his Securitron escort back to New Vegas, Phillip, ED-E, and the platoon headed out to find one of the most formidable men the President had ever met.

The trip to the canyon wreckage covering the path to the Divide was uneventful; of course, the state of lightness wasn't likely to last. It took a few days to actually get back to the Divide; it took a few seconds to confirm that it hadn't changed much from its state of desolation. One notable absentee of the Divide, however, was the mysterious Courier whom Phillip had come to see in the first place. His escorts seemed confused, and looked to the President for guidance.

"He's probably gathering supplies, he does this sometimes; he'll be back in a few hours max."

The group took a moment to set up camp near the Missile Silo at the entrance to the Divide to wait for the old acquaintance of Phillip's. What was intended to be a few hours soon turned into four hours. Four hours turned into six hours. Six hours turned into eight hours. Before the group knew it, it had been waiting for about two days, and there was still no sight of Ulysses.

Phillip knew that he couldn't have simply been dead; aside from perhaps Joshua Graham, he was the toughest man he knew. But where was he? He would have been back by now if he was really just scouting for supplies. Phillip's heart sank; this was the only other man alive who had any semblance of firsthand knowledge regarding the Tunnelers, and he was nowhere to be found. Now, it was left only to Phillip's own ingenuity to create a panacea.

Phillip had been staring blankly at the Divide from the cliff for the past hour or so, eliciting a worried reaction from his escorts. Murmurs started to surface; "What's he doing?", "When are we leaving?", "Is he really coming?". Of course, there were no answers; only questions.

In a moment of practicality, the Lieutenant of the platoon, named Enders, walked up to Phillip and tried to help him find a grip on reality once more.

"Mr. President, I know this man may be our only hope, but it's clear that he's not coming. If I may voice my opinion as appropriately as possible; perhaps we should just return to the Mojave, and try to rectify this situation as best we can. If there's going to be a war soon, then we need all the soldiers we can get; we can't-I don't feel that we have the resources or manpower to spend on excursions like this. Sir, may I…?"

The Lieutenant spoke pragmatically, no doubt; was waiting around here for someone who was not likely to be showing up wise or called for? Still in a state of hopelessness, Phillip gave his orders.

"Prepare the men and the Brahmin; we're leaving."


	3. Chapter 3

-Hello again and Happy New Years! (though perhaps the last part is a bit delayed) Hope you're liking this, and I hope you'll suggest this to friends or subscribe for story alerts (sorry if that last sentence was "noob speak" I can admit I'm still a newcomer to Fan Fiction, but as I said if there's any way you can suggest this to other people I'd appreciate it) This section includes more of the politicking of the Mojave, so if you don't like politics I can't guarantee you'll like this part. Ahead of time, I'm sorry for some of the stupid or cliché names, I'm not very creative in that regard. Well, enjoy, and please remember to review!

Chapter 3

The walk back to the Mojave was filled with the same thoughts Phillip had been mulling over since first discovering the extent of the Tunneler threat; doubt, "what if" questions, solutions. And of course there would still be domestic disputes that needed resolving; they wouldn't go away simply because savage humanoid like creatures were on the Mojave's doorstep.

Phillip, as he approached the Canyon Wreckage leading back to the Mojave, had an extremely ominous thought; he would have called it a nightmare had he not been awake. As he came back to the Mojave, the Tunneler threat would already be out of control, they would already have spread to all the major communities and started to consume everything in sight, the NCR would take the chance to go straight to New Vegas and tax everything in sight, the Legion would take the opportunity to go straight to the Dam and destroy it, everything in his world would end, all in the cruelly portentous sight of a blood red sun, setting over the Mojave for the last time.

As Phillip pushed quickly through the old remains of a bus back to the Mojave, he was remarkably pleased that this was not the case, as if everything that he had just outlined in his head was actually capable of happening, especially all at the same time. The platoon's radio man had recently contacted his Camp McCarran buddies, and confirmed that there had been no recent attacks or other major developments save for some increased civil unrest in the communities forced to tolerate martial law.

The sun was about to come up over the Mojave; common sense dictated that it was simply coincidental that the moment Phillip came arrived back at the Mojave was also the same time as sunrise, but he appreciated the symbolism. In some strange way, it renewed his confidence, made him feel that the Mojave still had a long future ahead of it, made him feel that, through his cunning, he could conquer anything that would dare threaten his home.

A whirring of bladelike structures quickly approached the canyon as the group arrived at the bottom, indicating that Phillip's new personal method of transportation had arrived; an, until recently, crashed vertibird that Phillip discovered and had refurbished (thanks to Raul's technical genius) after destroying its hostile robotic passengers. Phillip initially considered using it to get to the Divide, but the unpredictability of the storms made it an unviable option. Utilizing sufficient amounts of fuel that the NCR left behind at Camp McCarran, Phillip basically had the same reach as the NCR president's "Bear Force One" in his hands. He used it sparingly, and would have simply walked back to Vegas had time been a luxury currently in abundance; unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

Phillip, after ordering his escort back to McCarran, climbed aboard the odd looking aircraft that he had yet to grow accustomed to. His pilot, who still obviously needed to brush up on the flight manual for the machine as indicated by his mediocre landing, requested a destination.

"The Strip." Phillip responded directly.

Phillip had the privilege of watching the blatantly beautiful sunrise from the vertibird; the moment, regardless of its fickleness, made him appreciate the quality of life a bit more than he previously had. Unfortunately, a characteristically darker thought also crept into his head after he reminded himself of the situation; would this be a moment that he'd have the opportunity to repeat?

Phillip disembarked from the aircraft and briefly looked around at the Strip as the vertibird flew back to McCarran, as if some major event had occurred in the city during the last week and a half that he had missed. For all the problems that may have been occurring outside of Vegas, the Strip hadn't changed much in two years; revelry, occasional rowdiness, general insouciance, all backed up with the overall bottom line of the city; cash, lots of it, in fact.

The pair of Securitrons stationed at the oversized doors to the Lucky 38 scurried over to their master as fast as possible, as if he were in danger of being assassinated simply by being open for a couple of seconds. Of course, that may not have been too farfetched; there was always at least one lunatic around the Strip who didn't care about anything, let alone the fate of the city. Yes Man's face appeared on one of the Securitrons, and displayed one of the few remaining vestiges of his previous abnormally cheerful personality.

"Sir! I am so glad to see you unharmed! The Divide is certainly not a safe place you know; your advisers were all very worried, I almost sent all the Securitrons after you when I heard you weren't coming back at least for another week!"

"Well, I'm certainly glad you didn't; that would have been a serious misallocation of resources considering it was a surprisingly fruitless trip. But, enough about that; I'm sure the Council will want an address now."

"Indeed they do; things haven't exactly been pleasant around here with this whole martial law situation, people don't really like being under the military's direct supervision. They're waiting up in the Council Chambers, as usual."

"Thank you, Yes Man."

The general carefree nature of Vegas was further attested to by the consistently large number of gamblers Phillip observed in the Lucky 38's casino; Phillip would have been lying had he said that he was disappointed with the fact that the 38's profits were the largest among all the region's casinos since most of the revenue went straight to his coffers to be reinvested into his multiple projects.

Before addressing the Council, Phillip returned to his suite to change back into his formal attire; showing up to a Council meeting dressed in Riot Gear was likely to send an implication that Phillip wholeheartedly supported military rule, after all. Before exiting his suite, Phillip grabbed a bottle of whiskey that he quickly drank and discarded in the elevator; he found over the years that it was best that, prior to Council meetings, at least some relaxation methods be taken.

The Council Chambers (informally referred to as the Cocktail Lounge) was noisy as always upon Phillip's entry; several smaller tables and couches had been moved out and an extremely large table had been moved in that was large enough to accommodate all of the heads of Council while also emanating a subtle sense of teamwork to overcome problems. That said, this wasn't to imply that political bickering was a necessarily uncommon sight. Of course, if political bickering or unneeded noise occurred today, it wouldn't be over trade disagreements or other relatively trivial matters; it would be out of fear.

The Council spotted Phillip, with ED-E still in tow, almost immediately as he set foot onto the Lounge floor, and took the chance to accost him on sight; most of them leapt from their seats in anger. All except Phillip's four ministers knew nothing about the full extent of the situation, and yet they were ironically the calmest ones, remaining in their seats and refusing to take part in the borderline attack; perhaps a certain degree of comfort came with absolute truth, whether it was a consoling one or not.

Phillip raised his right hand slowly so his palm was visible to the Council, indicating that he was of the opinion that it was his turn to speak. The waylaying ended after ten seconds or so, and the Council had calmed enough to speak intelligibly. Trudy, the de facto mayor of Goodsprings, grasped the chance to speak before Phillip did.

"Mr. President, I would very much like to know what warranted both martial law and your absence in the same time frame! Were you afraid of how we would react, and under the impression that simply stepping out for a little air was a tenable option? Highway reconstruction I can understand, but why can't we even leave our towns to travel? We're basically prisoners!"

Cachino of the Omertas was next in line for an explanation demand.

"And what's worse than that? We weren't even permitted to vote on it! Martial law was forced on us! And don't even get me started on I-15 being closed down because of this reconstruction! Profits are already down six percent because no one wants to go all the way through I-95 to visit Vegas!"

The two were encouraged by a jumble of concurrences from the crowd. Phillip didn't bother raising his hand to request silence once more; he simply folded his arms and tapped his right shoe. It seemed that this, along with ED-E's constant mechanical chimes, did more to instill silence among the faction heads, and the Council was finally ready to hear Phillip's explanation.

"Now, I know that this has been far from a stress free week, but fighting won't help. It was made very clear upon inauguration of "The New Vegas Council" that rights to vote on issues would and could be temporarily suspended in situations in which the absolute safety of the Mojave could not be guaranteed. Maintaining curfews and confining all of you to your respective communities is, once more, the only way that we could guarantee your absolute safety. The Legion are cunning bastards as we all know, but they're also cowardly; they won't venture into the actual communities with most people packing firearms these days, they're even less likely to do so with a full NVDF force guarding said communities. Out on the roads, though, how can we be expected to guarantee your absolute safety? Patrols may be constant, but the Legion moves damn fast, as once more we all know; the highway damage attests to that. With Legionaries out there that are still capable of raising havoc, I'm sure I don't need to tell you how asinine it would be to allow caravans, tourists, or anyone else to move freely along the highway; they've burned supplies in the past simply to send a message. It would be my fault if any NCR traders died out here, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you that the NCR would likely not react well to that since I was the one who...suggested that they evacuate their military. I apologize formally to anyone here who has lost profits due to these new measures as a result of the lack of tourism, but we all know that self-sufficiency is much more common than it was two years ago; if you feel that you are currently without imperative supplies as a result of the lack of trade, feel free to make a petition and I will do my best to amend that as quickly as possible. In light of this new threat, I felt my absence was required immediately for an expedition into Legion territory to confirm my original suspicions; they're still fractured, they're still at war with each other, these attacks are nothing more than acts of desperation in what are likely the Legion's last breaths. We already suspect that these raiding parties are camped somewhere up in the mountains, all I can do at the moment is assure you that they will be eradicated as quickly as possible. Until then, I can't predict where or when they'll attack, so I must repeat my belief that these measures are necessary and justified."

Jansen of the recently inaugurated I-15 community "Stickell" took the opportunity to speak.

"Fine, I don't know about any of you, but I accept that; that makes enough sense to me, but why is HE here instead of Meyers? Does anyone else find it curious that Meyers isn't here the same week martial law is imposed and I-15 is shut down?"

Jansen's slender finger pointed toward Primm Slim, newly appointed unofficial representative of what everyone still believed was the prosperous and peaceful settlement of Primm. Thankfully for Phillip, despite its personable nature, Primm Slim was still a machine; thanks to some clever programming modifications, he wouldn't disclose any information regarding the massacre.

"It seems that Mister Meyers is even more upset about these recent developments than all of you are, so he's elected to send our robotic friend here as an unofficial representative. Rest assured, he'll still report any and all Council developments back to Primm and Meyers just the same. Isn't that correct, Mr. Slim?"

"Yup! You betcha partner! Yee Haw!"

"As far as we figure, we're to assume that means "yes"."

The absurdity of having a quasi-artificial intelligence unit as representative to actual people quickly caused controversy, and the Council began yelling in disagreement again. Thankfully, Veronica (Minister of Technology, Agriculture, Labor, Energy, Science, Water and Electricity Distribution, and Transportation), in her technological knowledge, managed to quell at least some of the controversy.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you, regardless of the somewhat jovial nature of this particular unit, Protectrons are perfectly capable of performing the tasks that have been assigned to Mr. Slim; some models, such as this one here, even have built in recording devices that log any and all conversation, so Mr. Meyers can at least be aware of Council developments and put forth his opinion via this machine even if he refuses to put in an appearance. I'm not entirely sure what the controversy is over having him here, but I assure you that this model has been programmed to be aggressive only in situations in which he feels that he or those around him are threatened; he couldn't hurt us or go against his programming even if he wanted to. If Mr. Meyers truly feels that being here personally is no longer worth his time, I suppose it's not within our power to stop him. Furthermore, I would like to state that, as Minister of Transportation, I concur with the President's assessment that the roads are not safe enough at the moment to guarantee ABSOLUTE safety for its traversers; why take chances when we can survive sufficiently another way?"

Veronica sat back down, and nodded to Phillip.

"Thank you, Minister Veronica. Well, ladies and gentlemen, if I have addressed your concerns with me personally in a sufficient enough manner, there are other things that require my attention at the moment. All of these measures are open to change depending on the circumstances in the weeks to come; if there are any developments, rest assured that you all will be among the first to know. Minister Boone, if you'll come with me, I'd like a word. Minister Gannon will wrap up any lingering issues, and you will all be escorted back to your homes as timely as possible. Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen."

In typical Council fashion, the fact that the President and the Minister of the Military elected to simply leave the meeting to attend to matters that were apparently deemed more important caused even more controversy, and the yelling picked back up as Phillip, Boone, and ED-E got into the elevator. Boone took it upon himself to press the 20th floor button, leading to the luxury suites, and the doors symbolically closed on the political sector of the Mojave, at least for the day.

"I take it we aren't just going back to the Presidential suite to discuss troop movements and allocation of other resources?"

"I think we have another issue that's past due for address, don't you?"

Of course; the Wilsons. Things had already been going so "well" for Phillip that the caravan family had completely slipped his mind. Boone was correct, of course; it wasn't right that they had already been detained for over a week, but they still represented a potential security breach. Of course, Phillip also wasn't just going to have them taken out to Freeside and shot, but they couldn't just leave, not now.

Perhaps explaining the situation would be the best option. After all, who were they going to tell? They were under guard practically twenty four hours a day. If Phillip's memory served, the family consisted of two parents, one teenage boy, and a little girl. Their two Brahmin were also housed free of charge in a pen near Freeside; humorously, Boone even afforded some minor military protection for them as well.

Boone knocked on the door to Suite 325 and gave the passcode to the soldiers inside, and the group stepped in to personally meet the family. They didn't seem terribly fearful; just a bit anxious, as if in impatient anticipation of something to come. The family sat on a large couch; the little girl was drinking a Nuka Cola, the father vodka. Boone moved out ahead of Phillip to be the one to meet the family first.

"Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, may I present the President of the New Vegas Council, Phillip Masterson."

Phillip stepped forward to meet the family as Boone stepped aside, ED-E following. The little girl seemed scared of the floating robot, and buried her head in her father's stomach. Realizing the conversation would go better without ED-E present, Phillip ordered via his Pip Boy that ED-E simply wait outside, which he obeyed. The family still seemed extremely confused, and remained silent in expectance of Phillip's explanation.

"Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, and…I'm sorry, I don't believe I have either of your names."

The little girl looked up briefly from her father's stomach, but buried herself again after catching a glimpse of ED-E as he left the suite. The teenager, who Phillip estimated to be about 18 or so, defiantly avoided eye contact. Phillip, even though he still knew almost nothing about his own past, empathized with the boy's rebelliousness; perhaps some part of his subconscious remembered being like him as a youth. Seeing that his children weren't going to answer, the father responded himself.

"This is Sarah, and that's Daniel."

Phillip smiled and politely introduced himself to the family despite Boone already doing so, as if Phillip and the family had met at a dinner party as opposed to a quasi-prison. Of course, regardless of whether or not Phillip liked it, there were more serious issues at hand; he wasn't there just to exchange pleasantries.

"I'd like to apologize for your detainment; you've…stumbled into a truly unique situation. I'd like to let you all go, but I also have no idea what sort of propaganda the government feeds you in California; for all I know, you're under the impression that we in the Mojave are cannibals and murderers who will only be satisfied once the entire NCR has been destroyed. Thusly, I can't be sure that you won't inform NCR officials about the...uncertain condition that the Mojave now faces. As you've probably deduced, that would likely lead to them believing that some sort of military offensive would be viable due to our weakened state, resulting in even more deaths. Nobody wants that, particularly not me, but perhaps in your sense of patriotism you feel that it's your duty to make known what you've seen. As such, I'm afraid it's a chance that I'm not willing to take at the moment, for the sake of my people if nothing else."

Before Phillip had a chance to explain and justify further, the shy little girl posed an unusually dark and guilt inducing question.

"Are you going to kill us, Mister?"

Phillip felt as if he bordered on monstrosity when there were legitimately children in the world who felt that they were in danger from him. Of course, the little girl could hardly be faulted for thinking so; it was wrong that she was put in this situation; the last thing any child needed was to be put in such circumstances. Of course, children also didn't need (or deserve) the wasteland; sometimes Phillip wondered what people were thinking bringing children into such a precarious world, Phillip certainly had no immediate plans to do so. Seeking to comfort the little girl and empathizing with her as he had with her brother, Phillip reached into his pocket to pull out some Bubblegum for her, and smiled as the little girl slowly took the box from his extended hand and helped herself to a piece. Shrugging and placing his hands in his pockets unsurely, Phillip gave an honest answer.

"No, sweetheart, you're not in any danger, I promise."

In a more serious tone directed more toward the little girl's parents than her, Phillip was equally candid.

"Unfortunately, as I've previously stated, releasing you all now is an untenable option. You seem like good people, and I'm genuinely sorry that you've been pushed into this situation. All I can give you are my assurances that you will not be detained for a moment longer than necessary. Otherwise, I'm afraid you'll have to remain here for now."

The formerly taciturn mother took the chance to throw in her two cents in a fit neurosis after the extent of the family's situation was made perfectly limpid.

"But...You-you can't just keep us here! We're NCR citizens and-and visitors of the Mojave! We have rights! Our government won't stand for this! They'll string you up by your toes before they allow this! This is in direct violation of the New Vegas Treaty, you despotic lunatic! You'll have an army on your doorstep within-"

The woman's son, Daniel, chimed in with his own view on the situation in light of his mother's panicky outburst.

"Oh for God's sake, Mom, shut up! He's probably right anyway; you would've gone straight to the Council Building back in Shady Sands to tell everyone about this once we got back there if that patrol hadn't come along. I think we're all past pretending our government gives a damn how many people die in their stupid wars; if your staying here for a while helps keep people alive, what right do you have to complain?"

Phillip was impressed; perhaps he was the one who had been victimized by propaganda after all. The impression in the Mojave had, over time, sunk in that all NCR citizens were either greedy gamblers, merchants, Brahmin barons, or just plain and simple bear flag praising nationalists incapable of empathizing with others, especially when their country's interests were involved. The boy, however, proved that at least some people over in California had some common sense left. Seeing that there was little else to contribute and unwilling to insert himself in family affairs, Phillip concluded his meeting with the family.

"I do wish I could offer you all some further amenities, but as I'm sure you know I've been extremely busy. Please feel free to request anything you'd like; you're all guests of the Lucky 38 and New Vegas, after all. If you'd like to set a dinner date one night, feel free to ask. Good day."

The family remained silent as Phillip walked out of the suite with Boone in tow. Phillip ordered ED-E via his Pip Boy to follow him again, and the group headed back toward the elevator. Phillip, had he just met Boone, would have assumed that he was mad at the moment; since he did know him, though, he knew that he was currently wearing his annoyed face.

""Feel free to request a dinner date"? Do you ask political prisoners to dinner frequently, Phil?"

""Guests" Boone, we call people staying at our hotels "guests"; this place doesn't look like much of a prison to me. We can't change the fact that they're here; we might as well offer as much comfort as possible. Can we discuss matters of national defense now, please?"

As Phillip and Boone meticulously studied the map in the Presidential Suite, Phillip outlined in his head how he wanted to manage his troops, such as in what density and with what frequency regarding reinforcements and supply allocation. Phillip rested his hand on the eastern section of the map.

"Novac, Nelson and Boulder City can afford some diluted patrols; they're practically as out of the way as possible, so I'm less worried about their security. Reinforce the Correctional Facility as much as you possibly can; I have little doubt that's where they'll head next, plenty of convicts for food. Maybe we can use this to our advantage, I'll think about it. Where they'll head next…"

Phillip tapped the left side of the map with his left pointer finger, clearly unsure about something.

"They're all just as probable; Goodsprings? Sloan? Hidden Valley?"

"We've exempted the Brotherhood, Great Khans, and Boomers from military occupation up until now since they're all capable of defending themselves, we'll need to tell them what's going on to justify sending troops; they won't believe for a second that just some run of the mill Legion stragglers are capable of being a threat to them."

Phillip bit his right thumbnail, a habit he'd formed that indicated he was thinking. The Brotherhood of Steel was and had been a pivotal ally to Phillip, he didn't want to risk them unnecessarily, but keeping information regarding the Tunneler threat as privileged as possible was also a concern high on the agenda; was discretion or strength of greater precedence?

"We'll assume that the camouflage at Hidden Valley will suitably protect the Brotherhood, and that Tunnelers aren't able to burrow through a bunker without substantial effort. So, that leaves the Correctional Facility, Sloan, and Goodsprings to be further reinforced. We'll get to the rest of the troop placement another day; I have some phone calls to make, if you'll excuse me."

Boone, however, seemed to be waiting for something, as if Phillip had left him dissatisfied in some regard. Unable to decode his Minister's cryptic implication with his body posture and silence, finally asked on his own.

"Is there something else you want, Boone?"

"You found him, right? He knows how we can stop these things, right? He has a solution?"

Of course; Phillip hadn't even told Boone about the outcome of the pseudo junket, primarily because telling him of the genuine outcome was likely to elicit an "I told you so" demeanor. Regardless, he deserved an explanation at the very least; he'd been overseeing the Mojave for the past week so Phillip could tend to his own affairs. Of course, Boone also wanted to hear that it had been for something, despite nothing being farther from the truth.

"I-We-he wasn't there. We…waited for hours, then days, he just …wasn't there. I don't know where he is; he may be dead, I'm…not sure."

Phillip expected to be chided for wasting time looking for someone whom he didn't end up finding. Instead, Boone simply let out a light sigh, and got up from his chair.

"I…understand." Boone said as he exited the Presidential Suite via the elevator.

This was uncharacteristic of Boone; typically, he had no problem expressing disapproval or criticism in any way, shape, or form, and he was never discriminatory against any particular person in that regard. And yet, there was more of a reserved and disenchanted nature to him upon hearing the news, as if the promise of finding a solution via the enigmatic Ulysses had been the only thing keeping him going through the days; the only thing giving him hope.

Rubbing his head in equal disappointment with the lack of a present definitive solution, Phillip moved to the doors and used his Penthouse key after the elevator returned. After arriving at the Penthouse and procuring a bottle of vodka from the fridge, Phillip set himself up at his desk of choice, and began to perfunctorily place a phone call.

And yet, in a way, Phillip felt peace, and a mild sense of satisfaction; if the Mojave's future wasn't secure indefinitely, for what it was worth, it was at least safe for a bit. Perhaps, in a way, that was the point of it all; a sort of "living one day at a time" philosophy. The idea was somewhat clichéd, but it wasn't necessarily wrong simply by that virtue. Phillip heard the receiver pick up on the other end, and began to speak his piece.

"We need to talk." Phillip started off.


	4. Chapter 4

-Sorry if the borders I tried to make between the stories were utter failures or didn't stretch across the entire page, it's hard to tell in Word. Well, that's about it; this chapter addresses those who had their prospects ruined during Phillip's rise to power, so he's not in this one. Please review; criticize, praise, and of course, enjoy! :)

Chapter 4

It wasn't easy to accept as an example of the "glass half full" philosophy in post-apocalyptia (nor was the philosophy of the glass being half full itself), but whenever some dire and seemingly insurmountable circumstances were presented, the rebuttal was typically "at least you're not in Arizona."

Of course, it was a justifiable refutation; there may have been an invasion pending in the Mojave, there may have been what bordered on economic disaster in the NCR, but they'd still fared better than Arizona. For east of the Colorado, there was no methodically run military protecting its people while still ruthlessly overseeing their work, no unitary and monolithic society bent on staying power and stability above all else, no high levels of trade fueling an already powerhouse economy; put quite forthrightly, there was no Legion.

As per Mr. House's prediction, Caesar's death was an irrevocable blow to the Legion, and after over thirty years of remarkable stability and unity, it fractured. Of course, the genius of Mr. House wasn't required to deduce that as an outcome; it was common sense. Caesar had been an incredible unifier in his time as dictator, but he'd also been the only leader the Legion had ever known; it would either fall apart after his death, or be forced to evolve. Thankfully for the Mojave and NCR, it was the former.

After the Legion's loss at the Dam, something of an "every man for himself/survival of the fittest" philosophy took effect, and most high ranking officers took what they had and went off in their own directions; the largest of these splinter groups were currently led by Vulpes Inculta, the sadistic leader of the Frumentarii, Gaius Magnus, and Aurelius of Phoenix, both important Centurions (Gaius himself avoided nuclear destruction by just a few hours once his century was ordered to reinforce the front line as opposed to guarding an out of the way village like Dry Wells).

The Praetorian leader Lucius, however, was not one such opportunist. He'd managed to rally a large number of Legionaries still fully dedicated to the ideals of the Legion post-Caesar's death, and threw everything he had at the traitors. In his eyes, he had a divine and legitimate right to rule the Legion now that Lanius and Caesar were gone; in the eyes of most, though, there wasn't even a Legion to rule, only soldiers to direct and opportunities for survival, and possibly even prosperity, to be taken. Civil war with die hard Legionaries like Lucius at the center, however, made it extremely difficult for anything short of chaos to result for all parties involved.

Regardless, through what could only be described as a miracle, a compromise was to be made today. Or, more appropriately, some would ATTEMPT to make a compromise today. Most of the splinter groups (including Lucius, Gaius, Vulpes, and Aurelius) agreed to meet in the old Flagstaff City Council Building. Previously Caesar's primary base of operations, it was now just a desolate and decrepit building, its abandonment testament to just one more mistake made by mankind.

"A cruel fate for Caesar's city that it's been deserted, for us to return only to consider ceasing killing each other, no?" Vulpes said to Gaius and Aurelius as the three arrived outside of the City Council Building with their respective forces.

Gaius and Aurelius ignored Vulpes, both more fixated on a statue of Caesar positioned outside of the Council Building built to commemorate his establishment of his first capitol, as if sheer will alone would cause it to become him, and allow him to save the vestiges of the Legion from disunity and internal conflict.

"Let's just get this over with; being here… I…feel eyes on me…like ghosts…" Aurelius said enigmatically.

Of course, being in the ruins of what had previously been the pinnacle of Legion power and influence would have been poignant for anyone who had been in the Legion as long as Aurelius. There was a time when the mere mention of the Legion elicited fear amongst even the most mettle possessing individuals; now, the term "Legion" was used as little more than a substitute for boogeyman stories, and all the reach that had previously represented the Legion had all but dissipated, left behind only in husks like Flagstaff; ghosts, indeed.

"Do we have any guarantees that he won't be belligerent? He's spent these last two years doing nothing but trying to eliminate us, why negotiate now?" Gaius inquired.

"His forces may be sizable, but initiating hostilities here would be detrimental for all parties involved; no, this fighting has hurt him as much as it has us." Vulpes added.

Without another word, the three proceeded into the Assembly Hall; Lucius, some of his Praetorians, and a small contingent of his other forces were already seated at the large, circular table (the rest of his forces were camped out behind the building). Several of the smaller splinter group leaders were seated in the benches, waiting for the meeting to begin. The other three took their seats with their own escorts, and the "peace talks" began.

"It borders on an affront toward Caesar that only after two years of havoc and internal conflict have we started to consider diplomatic surceases to our differences, you know." Vulpes said slyly to the coldly silent Lucius, in a tone that made it obvious that the statement was an attempt to provoke him.

"Lanius always did think that you were more of a talker than a warrior, what Caesar saw in you I'll never know." Lucius said insultingly.

Vulpes took offense, but did fairly well to cover it up, right before issuing his own riposte.

"Why none ever challenged such an old man for such an illustrious position, _I'll _never know."

"It's called respect, Vulpes; you wouldn't know of it, the treacherous weasel that you are."

"I value cunning and subtlety above brute strength, Lucius; Caesar understood the importance of such assets, _your_ inability to do so makes me doubt in no uncertain-"

"I didn't come here to watch you two go for each other's throats during the first truce we've had in two years; if this is all that we've been called for, I can step out and leave you two to it." Aurelius interrupted.

Lucius composed himself, and prepared himself for the stern address he had planned.

"Personally, all I feel toward each of you is that your lack of loyalty is appalling; Caesar wouldn't want his death to be the death of his Legion, and yet you disrespect his legacy while his ashes are barely cold by taking off in separate directions, like frightened profligates. But, I have no choice but to respect your abilities as commanders, as well as the extent of your forces; I have no interest in continuing this civil war while there are those who deserve the destruction we've already wrought against each other tenfold more than we do."

"Your semantics are not serving to impress, Lucius; if you have a point, we suggest you make it." Gaius added, with the encouragement of some of the other centurions seated in the benches.

Lucius sighed disdainfully, and prepared his thesis.

"That profligate courier, Phillip as I recall, is the reason we're even here; he murdered Caesar without even having the respect to do so directly, worked for the Bear's interests and against the Bull's every opportunity he had, rained fire down on Arizona for a second time, and swept the Mojave out from under the feet of House and the Bear under the guise of loyalty and servility; a coward if ever there was one, one who relies on treachery even more than...anyone here."

Vulpes snorted at the patent reference toward him and folded his arms disinterestedly, while Gaius and Aurelius continued to pay fairly close attention.

"You are correct, of course, but I suspect you aren't just mentioning this all in vain; what do you propose, Lucius?" Aurelius asked.

"Over thirty years of unity was undone by that worm, and the Legion had nothing to say in response other than a few slaps on the wrist. The Legion doesn't strike for the wrist, it never has; it strikes for the head, or the heart." Lucius said metaphorically.

Gaius took the opportunity to respond to Lucius' obvious implication.

"An en masse attack on the Mojave is your proposal, correct? Bold, Lucius. Risky, but admirable. Caesar's death has yet to completely diminish the overall and combined strength of the Legion, but those sinful machines still protect that cowardly profligate; such evil is always depraved, but often powerful. You can't expect us all to throw men at a hopeless cause, Lucius; I'm afraid-"

"He's claiming that Legion skirmisher parties are attacking the Mojave, he's closed down the major road supplying Vegas. I know _I'm _not responsible for this, and I suspect, with your inability to attain new recruits, none of you are either. I had to hear about this via my scouts. They wouldn't be so impulsive as to perpetrate these "attacks" themselves. If the rumors are true, some NCR citizens also appear to have simply vanished into thin air concurrently; he hasn't even addressed the matter yet. I would insert scouts onto the road to investigate further, but even men as skilled as mine can't avoid an army." Lucius interrupted.

Gaius and Aurelius made their confusion obvious, while Vulpes remained indifferent.

"What would he gain from suggesting that we're still attacking him?" Aurelius asked.

"The only logical conclusion is that he is covering up a bigger threat to avoid panic. Him being directly behind the disappearances is unlikely; he wouldn't murder his own equally decadent customers, his greed makes him predictable. Thusly, once we attack, we won't be his only enemy, and we won't have his full attention; not like before, the bear is likely thinking very similarly." Lucius said.

Gaius and Aurelius looked at each other unsurely and shrugged.

"It's an interesting proposition, Lucius; one with potential most likely. But, you can't expect having a mutual enemy will make the Legion whole again, the damage has already been done." Gaius rationalized.

Lucius held up his hand in response, and shook his head.

"Whatever happens will happen, if it makes the Legion whole again, that will be an extremely fortunate byproduct of this venture; at the very least, we will have our revenge against that accursed "Union". The Legion bled and died for that disgusting city, and never succeeded in claiming it as the new Rome; trying to take it now would be an exercise in futility, and asinine in addition; we'd be on the same level as the bear."

"If not capturing it, then…what is it that you suggest we do once we get to Vegas?" Vulpes asked in his first words in a while.

Lucius stared with a fiery conviction at Vulpes, and offered the simplest and most convenient solution in regards to the city.

"We burn that den of vice to the ground; we remind the profligates why the Four States Commonwealth fell to us in just over three decades, we remind them why the sight of Legionaries marching once instilled fear, we remind them why cowards such as them once buckled in fear at the sound of our training drums. If the Legion must die, profligates will come with us in droves." Lucius stated vindictively.

Lucius got up from his seat to walk around, as if he were a politician about to say something rousing to his constituents.

"But I can do nothing without your support; join with me, and we shall accomplish all of this, and more. All I require from you…is "aye"."

What the seasoned Praetorian said was stirring for everyone in the room; even Vulpes was affected, though he feigned nonchalance in denial of the idea that anything the old man had to say still had meaning. Several ayes had emanated almost immediately from the benches, then a few more, more still, until ayes were even uttered from the mouths of Gaius and Aurelius. Everyone in the room had uttered an aye…except Vulpes. Still interested in the respectable amount of forces Vulpes had at his disposal, Lucius cajoled.

"Vulpes, your personal feelings toward me are irrelevant; you have the opportunity for revenge, to prove that Nipton and Searchlight are not the only sorts of feats that your Frumentarii are capable of; why would you not take that?"

If nothing else, Lucius offered reasonable arguments, and his skills of persuasion were well developed; his charisma reminded him of very much Caesar, as if part of him had lived on in the men whom he trusted.

_Yes, perhaps there really are ghosts here._ Vulpes thought to himself.

"Aye." Vulpes said grudgingly.

"_Why am I here? _Colonel Hsu constantly thought to himself.

It was certainly not a question without aim; what he was currently doing went against his ideals, in more ways than one. Hsu couldn't deny that he was something of a minor nationalist, but that didn't excuse practically going behind the back of the entire NCR military to plot with a politician holding a grudge. The only reason he was even here was because of some extreme persuasion from his colleague and (somewhat) friend, Colonel Moore. Hsu could admit that always she got the job done, but her means stretched reasonability; she would have approved murdering the King's right hand man Pacer and/or Papa Khan in order to solidify alliances with the two factions, if it was called for.

The goal of these meetings was, in Moore's eloquently put statement, "To find ways to expose the wrongdoings of the government of the "Union of the Mojave" so as to justify military action against the ruthless regime, and subsequent deposition." In reality, Hsu couldn't help but feel that Moore and the others were simply fishing for reasons to justify all out invasion against a country that only wanted its independence, even if there weren't any genuine reasons for doing so; they'd make ones if they had to.

Regardless of his respect for the Mojave's desire for autonomy, Hsu despised deception and betrayal; that Courier, Phillip, gave his word to the NCR that he would assist in their annexation (and by extension protection) of the Mojave, including Vegas. In the end though, the bastard selfishly took it all for himself; regardless of all his talk of how it was to assert the independence of his people, no one would have accepted him as ruler had he not possessed an army of Mark 11 Securitrons; that wasn't independence, that was fear.

The Shady Sands Hall of Congress, along with the country it represented, had changed much over the years; additional wings had been made so as to accommodate the constantly growing NCR government (and its already existing executive and judicial branches), essentially making the building the head of the entire NCR government. It served fairly well to instill a unitary identity, but so many bureaucrats and politicians under one roof was almost asking for trouble.

Hsu followed Moore though the first checkpoint at a steady pace, and took the opportunity to schmooze.

"Have you ever thought about what we're doing here? I'll go out on a limb and assume that high ranking military officials colluding with politicians to justify declaring a war is frowned upon in the Constitution."

Moore frowned in response as she and Hsu continued unchecked through the next checkpoint.

"We're not doing anything illegal, James, we're being pragmatic; the Union of the Mojave represents a very real threat to our way of life; you think those robots are going to be throwing tennis balls at us once Masterson is no longer content with this stalemate? We stand a better chance if we make the first move and, better yet, if we have just cause to do so."

"People are going to get hurt if we go to war again, Cassandra; the army is just starting to become strong again, I don't want to send more goddamn kids to die, I had enough of that at McCarran, let Congress pick up the guns next time, it's their damn cause that we fought and bled for."

Moore stopped almost immediately after the next checkpoint, looked around briefly, and checked Hsu into a corner.

"Listen, James, you CAN'T say things like that here. No one here likes the idea any more than you do, but James, our country is dying; we had slumps during the war with the Legion, but this might not be one we can just climb out of; war debts don't just go away after the wars. If we don't take Vegas and its resources soon, our economy's going to suffer, A LOT. The NCR needs your support as much as it needs mine; don't you love your country?"

Hsu immediately retorted.

"Let's not pretend that this is about the welfare of the economy or pride in our nation, Cassandra, this is about greed; we were only in the Mojave because Congress just wanted more damn tax caps going to their coffers, and they haven't gotten over the fact that they were cheated out of them by a "lowlife" courier who ended up outwitting us."

"James, Tandi and Aradesh didn't create this great nation by bending knee when things were looking grim; perseverance and hard work are what define us. The NCR WILL beat this guy, whoever the hell he is; I don't care how smart he is. House was afraid of us, the Legion was afraid of us, we'll MAKE this guy afraid of us, he can't hide behind his robots forever."

"You're right, he'll hide behind the fact that we only have fresh water, food, and electricity because of him; face it Cassandra, we exist because of him! We can't just go against him, people will die! Look out from behind your patriotic speeches long enough to see it!"

The impasse between the two erupted into an all-out argument, one that was more audible than preferred by the loitering bureaucrats. A man emerged from the lobby just ahead, clearly of the opinion that the two needed to stop.

"Hsu! Moore! What the hell are you two doing?" Asked the man.

The voice belonged to Colonel Royez, the officer previously charged with overseeing the supplies moving between the Mojave Outpost and California. He was reassigned to a regiment of his own post-Hoover Dam; his experience was of more use elsewhere, and certain characters must have seen that; he wouldn't have been there at the Hall Of Congress otherwise.

"Is there a problem?" Royez asked after a slight pause.

Moore's argumentativeness had subsided, and she looked at Hsu and gave a light sigh.

"No, there's no problem. Just some…reluctance, it seems."

Moore walked away from the corner toward the lobby just ahead; Hsu wasn't in tow. She didn't seem angry, more disappointed. She turned around halfway and addressed him.

"No one forced you to be here, James; we're here because we think we can do some good, even if we might have to do a little bit of bad to accomplish it. I don't know about you, but I don't like the idea of young mothers starving on the streets, unable to find work to feed themselves, let alone their babies, while some bastards in Vegas are getting laid or gorging themselves on some Brahmin Wellington. If you don't think that, you don't have to be here. No one wants to make you do anything you don't want to. Otherwise, we…I…would like you to come along."

Hsu couldn't believe he was cajoled by Moore again; charisma and skills of persuasion in a commanding officer weren't necessarily uncommon, but most were hardly as developed as Moore's. Her response might have been slightly exaggeratory since Hsu hadn't seen any starving mothers or babies on his way into the building, but the country was still no doubt hurting because of Masterson's interference.

Without another word of protest, Hsu let out a sigh and followed Moore and Royez into the next room, and eventually to just outside the Congress Assembly Hall. A man waited outside the room for the three; without even knowing who he was, anyone could tell the man had a chip on his shoulder the size of a house, anyone could tell he was a man of influence, but also a man of vindictiveness, a man willing to get the job done at all costs. But, this was also a man who had been humiliated, a man who had likely been forced to contend with a serious reality check in recent years, a man who (theoretically) had a 16.5 percent chance of suicide to escape his embarrassment; a man like Lee Oliver.

Oliver hadn't fared well since his return to California from the Dam; for many he was a scapegoat, for many he was a traitor, for many he should have been shot on the spot for cowardice. But, there were at least some people looking out for the interests of the General; he wouldn't have retained his post had he, or some of his contacts, not had influence.

"Are you two done? I could hear you from in here. We have a meeting, and I'd like not to have to tell the Senator that two of my top colonels need a time out because they can't stop yelling."

Moore and Hsu looked at each other, with the latter still giving the silent treatment to the former.

"Yes sir, that's all done; there's no problem here." Moore stated in only partial truth.

"Good, then let's begin, shall we?"

The group shuffled into the room and found only one other man awaiting them, the Senator who organized these meetings via Oliver, sitting in a black leather chair.

"Please, sit." Called the Senator.

Even though his back was turned, the man emanated the same sort of demeanor of Oliver had; embarrassment, pride, hawkishness, all melded together with a serious desire for revenge (though in his eyes, justice). The man was Aaron Kimball, former president of the NCR.

He would likely have been voted out of office on a motion of no confidence once it was made known that a "road jockey" had pushed the entire NCR military (and more importantly his selection for their commander) out of the Mojave, so he took the initiative and resigned. Through a loophole (since he hadn't technically served his entire term as president) he was legally allowed to run for senator of Shady Sands, and won thanks to the sheer extent of his resources and wealth.

He may not have been popular at present, but he WAS influential, and it was through this influence that the Congress would eventually approve military action against Masterson, via Oliver and his appointees, of course.

"So, what do we have today?" Kimball said as he spun around slowly to meet the eyes of his compatriots.

Oliver gave his report as the four took their seats.

"Senator, I'm sure you're aware of how all caravan and tourist traffic has been rerouted through I-95, I-15 has been closed, allegedly for repairs thanks to damage caused by several Legion raiding parties."

"But you don't think it's the Legion." Kimball replied.

"It…just seems strange. Firstly, we've noticed that several tourists that were last seen moving along I-15 are overdue for check in at the Mojave Outpost by a few of days; and one caravan group, a family as I recall, is missing as well, overdue by a couple, those Vegas bastards are stonewalling us about it so far."

"Details, details, Lee; what does it mean?" Kimball asked directly.

Oliver looked around to his colleagues unsurely, as if they would have been more suited for explaining than he.

"Sir, with absolutely no disrespect toward you or our great army, our troops weren't patrolling the roads with half of the efficiency that Masterson keeps them patrolled; sir, I don't believe for a second that some scattered Legionaries, or even wildlife, are capable of wreaking that much havoc, there may not even be any Legionaries; I…just don't know…"

Kimball, being a bright man, connected the dots quickly.

"You think Masterson is either behind their disappearances, or is lying to cover up something that's worse than the Legion."

Oliver nodded, seemingly pleased that his old war buddy saved him from explaining further.

Kimball sighed and shrugged.

"It's a long shot, but it's worth looking into. You think we can slip some scouts disguised as unknowing tourists through I-15 to check it out?"

Oliver shook his head.

"I wouldn't advise it; I-15 is, by their account, littered with NVDFs by now, we could be signing death warrants if Masterson is really behind these disappearances. We're better off just waiting; if there's something else going on over there, we'll likely know soon."

Kimball, after pausing for a few seconds, seemed satisfied, and nodded.

"Alright, good enough, I'll report this to Congress; this should be enough to create some rudimentary unrest, cast doubt on appeasement. And as you said, if there's something fishy happening over there, it's not just going to go away anytime soon; those citizens didn't just evaporate into thin air."

Oliver opened his mouth to speak as Kimball started to rise from his seat, indicating that there was something else to talk about, prompting the Senator to take his seat back slowly.

"Sir, I've been thinking; we aren't likely to outclass Masterson on our own. The NVDF we have a decent chance of fighting through, but not without casualties; we'd leave ourselves open to the Securitrons. So…I've arranged for an outside…consultant…one who can't be traced back to us, to be brought here. With your leave, of course."

Kimball, his curiosity piqued, nodded in approval. Oliver grabbed a two way radio off of his belt and spoke into it.

"Bring him in now."

About thirty seconds later, the doors to the Congress Assembly Hall swung open, and three NCR Heavy Troopers (under direct control of Oliver himself) walked in, along with the "consultant".

"So, who do we have here?" Kimball inquired.

"Maybe I deserved it." Mumbled the lone dandy as he walked along the relatively deserted NCR road.

Aside from the occasional trader caravan or tourist group, the man was completely alone, as if fate itself was trying to tell him that this was the only destiny left for him. His foppish demeanor may have been understandable since it was a vestige of his old lifestyle, but it was also inappropriate considering he was just barely scraping by living off of the land.

Then again, he'd also been trained fairly well in regards to survival, so complaining may not have been right since his belly was still full (at least at the moment), a luxury few were afforded in the wasteland.

In reality, he couldn't really complain about anything; he, through his ambition and treachery, had brought his fate upon himself, and he was also lucky as hell to have walked away from it relatively unscathed. Few could say the same thing once they tried to tango with…him. Or him, for that matter.

He had no ambitions other than survival at the moment; he'd likely keep heading along the road until he got to a place where he could sleep, see if there were some tourists or traders who weren't smart enough to pack guns that he could hold up.

It all happened years ago, and yet he was still filled with bile over it; he used to be somebody of status, somebody respected, admired even. Now, he was little more than a nomad, content more with surviving than living.

"But still, what a bastard." The loner mumbled in slight humor as he dragged on.

His legs were starting to hurt from all the walking, so he decided to rest in an abandoned house just off the road for a minute. Bored, he took out his pistol to fondle; if there was nothing else worthy of being called beautiful in the wasteland, his pistol would be the exception. It was almost like a friend to him; he'd had it since he was just a teenager, and it had always been there for him when he was in trouble. As he was about to reflect on his life and what it had been worth a bit more in depth, he heard a rustling in the bushes just outside of the house.

_Now? Of all times? _The wanderer thought to himself, under the impression that he was up against raiders looking to rob/kill him.

_Won't these bastards be disappointed once they see I'm not worth anything. _He thought to himself in silent humor.

He crouched and quietly moved behind the couch that he was resting on, ready for his soon to be attackers to take their best shots. He was hoping that they weren't packing anything heavy; he could have been in much better condition munitions wise than a pistol and no respectable armor.

Before he knew it, the door to the house had been kicked open. He leapt up from behind the couch to deliver a few shots; two hit, one missed, but it didn't matter anyway; his opponent was in power armor. He crouched back quickly into cover as the hulking stranger temporarily retreated.

_Oh shit… _He thought grimly.

No run of the mill raider would have power armor unless he was an extremely lucky scavenger. Could it be Brotherhood of Steel? No, he didn't see any energy weapons. Who else could-

His thoughts were interrupted by a blinding flash; someone had deployed flash bangs inside of the house. He dropped his pistol in confusion, and heard it slide across the floor.

"Oh dammit…" He thought aloud.

He tried to crawl around on the floor feeling for it, still in blindness, terrified that his life was at an end. By the time he'd reached it, it was too late. He was tackled from the side, sending his head into the corner of the couch. He tried to struggle, but he was still blind, and being tackled by a power armor wearing opponent felt like being kicked by a Brahmin; there was no point, especially when he could see that there were three of the bastards. Regardless, he wasn't dead; someone had plans for him. He felt one of his attackers restraining him at the hands; another was repeatedly asking "Is this him?" apparently to the annoyance of his two comrades.

"Of course it's him, dumbass! He wouldn't have fired on us otherwise!"

"And it's his suit! His pistol! Who the hell else would it be?"

"If you want to explain to Oliver why we nabbed the wrong guy, you be my guest! I wanna' know for sure that we're not just detaining some wastelander!"

The one restraining him at the wrists grunted, and gave into his comrade's demand.

"Hey! What's your name?"

_Dammit. _The wanderer thought to himself.

If someone wanted to know his name, it was because someone was looking for him in particular; not just to rob him, not just to ransom him, cannibalize him, etc.; someone wanted something from him.

"I won't be nice next time, pretty boy; WHAT'S. YOUR. NAME!"

With a sigh, the former New Vegan confirmed his identity.

"Benny; my name is Benny."


	5. Chapter 5

-As a result of serious writer's block, I've skipped my update for "Death of a Follower, Birth of a Dictator" and decided to update this instead, sorry if that disappoints anyone. Back to Phillip's side of things; sorry if you missed him (actually, I'd be glad if you missed him; that means I've created a relatively likable character). As always, reviewing is encouraged; good? Bad? Moderate? Anything you have to say will be taken into consideration, I assure you. Provided you have something to say and don't just want to put me down, of course. I tried using "squigglies" (admittedly I don't know the technical term) for my borders since the standard lines didn't work last time. Once more, sorry if I failed epically. And kudos to you if you catch the Death Note reference in here, and NOT kudos to me for being nerdy enough to put it in here in the first place. Sorry, I suffer from Chronic Nerd Syndrome, it's painful. Anyway, there's some comic relief in this one, which some of you might or might not appreciate, hopefully it's the former; I feel perpetually dark when I write a similarly perpetually dark story, so you'll have to indulge me since I'm not a fan of feeling so melancholy. Sorry if some of the details in this seem a little…off (e.g. physiological, technological, or Vegas lingo), hopefully you can overlook it; I'm actually fond of this chapter myself, all vanity aside. Review and enjoy :)

Chapter 5

For lack of appropriate enough words, the mood pervading the Lucky 38 could best be described as uncomfortable, outright awkward even. It was comparable to the feeling of apprehension one felt when having friends over to a new home; "Will they think my hovel smells funny?", "Will they think living in a sewer is too clichéd?". Of course, most people didn't have a highly sophisticated, semi sentient, almost omnipotent artificial intelligence system responsible for a great deal of most of the accomplishments the person in question had fulfilled stashed away in a sewer or shack. The group stared confusedly at the prodigious monitor, with only Yes Man and Phillip emanating a sense of knowingness.

"So…this…thing…is why we're all even here, why you've been able to control the Securitrons with such ease." Boone stated almost skeptically.

"This "thing" is named Yes Man; some sort of prewar term for submissive and servile individuals, courtesy of Benny and his power hunger narcissism." Phillip said.

"Hello, I'm pleased to make all of your acquaintances; I…don't get out much, so there are only a few people whom I know." Yes Man stated in an almost melancholy tone.

"He's been modified, but there was a time when he'd do anything you'd say; he's not that tractable anymore, but he still obeys me readily. I've kept his existence on a need to know basis since I couldn't guarantee someone in my inner circle wouldn't take advantage of this for the benefit of the NCR or other powers willing to pay for loyalty; sorry, it was just business, I barely knew any of you back then. On an unrelated note, I personally think I could have come up with a better name for him." Phillip said in only half seriousness.

"And…why show this…"him", to us now?" Veronica inquired.

"I don't want to keep any secrets. Well, at least not from any of you; I trust all of you, and I suspect control of the Securitrons will be pivotal in the days to come, so we should all be on the same page." Phillip said.

"Well, as much as I'm sure our little merry menagerie here appreciates your candidness Phil, there are issues that need to be taken care of outside of introducing us to personable A.I.s; for sta-"

Phil interrupted Arcade with a halting motion of his hand, and turned to the massive computer monitor.

"Yes Man, would you turn on Mozart's 21st please?"

"Gladly, sir." Yes Man responded.

The soothing and stimulating harmony pervaded the Penthouse as the group moved into the dining room. Phillip recalled reading a prewar study suggesting that temporary boosts in Intelligence Quotient weren't uncommon after listening to the brilliant composer; it may or may not have been valid, but the alleged intelligence boost would have practically gone unnoticed in Phil anyway, the concerto was more for stress relief than anything else.

"Gunther and Rossi Trading Companies called; they want to know if the the Mark III Securitron deliveries are being delayed, NCR roads aren't as secure as ours and they like having the extra security for their caravans." Cass stated as the group took their seats.

"They'll arrive on time, why would Legionary stragglers affect previously made financial arrangements? Just stress that payment isn't late; tax revenue is down, and we have plenty of costly work that needs doing." Phillip said, with a tone of slight disappointment near the end. It was a bad day indeed when even he believed his lies, and when he tried to convince his friends of them when they already knew otherwise; he said "Legionary" without even the slightest indication of spuriousness.

Veronica and Boone looked at each other in shock, and looked back to the stoic Phil; why was he trading what could have potentially been the nation's number one line of defense?

"I-Phil, Big Mountain didn't come cheap, and neither did those Securitrons; we worked hard creating the new Mark III system, let's use it; why trade it off, especially when we're being threatened?" Veronica asked in a confused tone.

"I agree; Tesla Cannons, Gauss Rifles, EMP resistance, none of that came easily Phil; the nation needs them more than Gunther and Rossi." Boone said.

"This arrangement was made months ago, disrupting it now implies that we need all the forces we can muster just to secure the Mojave from the "Legionaries", which implies weakness, which will imply a weakness that can be taken advantage of; I wouldn't be surprised if a few clever Legionaries or NCR politicians have already started to figure out how strange it is to shut down I-15 as just a precaution, so we need to throw them off as much as possible to buy time. We'll make the deal, and use the proceeds to fund our other defense projects." Phillip said.

Three Securitrons rolled into the room, carefully balancing several plates and beverages in their strange and non-opposable hands.

"Ugh, thank God our lunch is here; I was having a serious sugar jones." Phillip stated happily.

"Jones? Who is Jones?" Veronica asked naively.

Phillip shrugged as the Securitrons began to pass around the meals.

"I don't pretend to know the origin of prewar phrases; I just use them." Phillip stated as the last of the plates and bottles were delivered.

Phil took the opportunity earlier to order meals for his Minsters based on their personalities; Boone, hard as nails, reliable, and unchanging, was ordered a Salisbury steak with a side of Jalapeno Peppers and beer (and some Coyote tobacco chew as a post meal pleasure). Veronica, being sweet but not too delicate (and something of a child inside) was ordered some YumYum Deviled Eggs with a side of Blanco Mac and Cheese and Sunset Sarsaparilla.

Cass, tough and informal, was ordered some Iguana on a stick with a side of apple and, naturally, whiskey. Arcade, reserved and wisely temperate, was ordered a "Desert Salad" with some maize and purified water. Phillip, to cite a cliché and pun, "took the cake" in the form of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes with some sugary Banana Yucca Fruit and some crushed up Sugar Bombs distributed over the top, along with a Nuka Cola Victory.

Phillip's ministers started at him prior to starting their meals, which prompted him to look up from his own.

"You just made an entire meal out of junk, Phil; you should have at least something that's healthy, you might as well down two pounds of sugar if you're going to eat that." Arcade said.

"What? I like sweets, and my metabolism is abnormally high anyway, I don't gain weight. And who are you supposed to be, my physician?" Phillip rationalized in vain since the last part was actually true.

"You could pass out if you eat like that a lot; sugar overload isn't pretty." Boone warned pointlessly.

"My…condition…has resulted in reduced glucose levels to my brain, resulting in lessened frontal lobe and cerebral cortex functions in an overall...17.2 percent decrease in mental ability…unless I keep myself loaded with high levels of monosaccharides with relative frequency. So, theoretically, you'd just need to keep me away from my sweets to outwit me." Phillip explained.

"That's a grim picture; our brilliant leader having the IQ of us mere mortals because he didn't eat his Fancy Lads." Veronica humorously suggested.

Despite the intended comedy, Phillip seemed to take the implication rather seriously, until the solemnity was diffused by his next action.

"I'll give you this banana if you keep it a secret, ok?" Phillip said as he tossed a piece of the sugary banana across the table onto Veronica's plate.

"Mmm. Now, back to business I think. What else do we have?" Phillip said as he gleefully continued to devour his cakes.

"Major Knight at the Mojave Outpost contacted us on the "diplomacy frequency", said that there were some NCR tourists who have gone unaccounted for, and he wants to know if we have any knowledge regarding their whereabouts." Arcade said.

"Tell him we have no reason to believe that these "disappearances" are anything more than results of slow travelling, or they might have simply taken up temporary residence in one of the communities as per the temporary shutdown of traffic along I-15; we'll be sure to file inquiries with Goodsprings and the other communities if that'll satisfy him."

"The Quarry Union is threatening a strike; they have nowhere to ship the limestone now that I-15 is shut down, so they're basically just standing about anyway." Veronica stated.

"When they idle around and still get free room and board, they don't have half of a right to threaten me; tell them that they CAN be replaced if they're unwilling to be patient, not everyone is lucky enough to have a job right now." Phillip said in almost irritation. The Quarry Union had given him trouble before due to the increased demand for workers and occasional pay cut, but he wasn't even close to being in a good enough mood for dealing with their "demands" today.

"Oh, and Trudy, and the other "I-15ers" are being particularly adamant today in their belief that this shutdown should be lifted; they asked to schedule an out of council meeting soon, one of my people put them on hold." Arcade said.

"Call them back." Phillip said simply as he started on his last snack cake.

"Since they have to go all the way through I-95 to trade with Vegas, the United Californian Traders Association is asking for a twenty percent decrease in the "protection tax" to compensate for the inconvenience." Cass said.

"Give them ten, and suggest that they remember the tax is appropriate considering how little hostility traders have to deal with here." Phillip stated ironically since he was currently detaining one such trade caravan that would have been facing copious amounts of hostility had it arrived at Primm an hour earlier.

"One of the military's benefactors, an NCR Brahmin baron ironically, is threatening withdrawal of his financial support unless we repeal the I-15 lockdown; his profit margins have been negatively affected by the new measures it seems." Boone stated.

"Send him a copy of that agricultural study we conducted last year; remind him that mad Brahmin disease stories can be running in Mojave newspapers by Friday, we'll see how his profit margins fare then." Phillip said in an uncharacteristically manipulative manner.

"Well, I suppose that's it for today, though I have to express my disapproval for the way we continue to treat symptoms as opposed to treating the sources; another time, perhaps." Arcade said as the group got up and began to move for the elevator.

"Actually, Craig and Veronica, will you remain here please? We have something else to talk about, I think. Oh, please don't let me keep you two, though." Phillip said as the two exchanged glances and moved back to take their seats and as Arcade and Cass exited.

"I have an additional project planned, one that I'd prefer be kept relatively "need to know", and I need both of you. But, it's also hazardous; extraordinarily so, are you up for it?"

"Phil, do you even have to ask? If it helps the country and involves danger, it's common sense that I'm up for it." Veronica stated eagerly.

"What do you need Phil?" Boone asked seriously.

Phil smiled at the steadfast loyalty of his friends.

"I've told you about the Divide, right? I…think there's something there that could help the war effort. But, the Divide is also extremely dangerous; I'm sending both of you for retrieval along with 2nd regiment. I'm setting a two week deadline; let's not be bovine, I don't like the idea of having troops anywhere but here at the moment." Phillip said.

"And…what exactly are you looking for? What's worth sacrificing security to retrieve?" Veronica asked interestedly.

"Nuclear warheads; several of them, I only destroyed the ones that were in my way. At best, the Think Tank can use them for something; at worst, well, we have a last resort if this threat escalates." Phillip said grimly.

"Phil…dammit, we can't do this now; you want us to head straight into their home when they're already in ours?" Boone said, in a tone that suggested he took offense at the idea.

"I don't ask this of you two lightly, but we need to be ready if not everything pans out the way we want; we CANNOT let this spread to the rest of the country. Legion, NCR, whoever the hell else is out there, it doesn't matter; no one deserves this, this is our burden, it dies here, in the Mojave, where it started." Phillip stated in a blend of charisma and forebodingness.

As always, Phillip's attempts at persuasion worked; Boone and Veronica exchanged unsure glances, but the two were clearly still feeling servile today.

"This'll cost; we'll need transportation, anti-radiation meds, a workforce, food, water, and that's all assuming we won't need to make continuous trips back here for weapons and ammo to defend against whatever the hell else lives in that place." Boone stated.

"You'll get whatever you need; the Mark IIIs are already being prepared for delivery, so cash income should be substantial, we'll coordinate details later, I...just wanted to confirm that you'd both be willing. I'll start sketching a map of the nuke locations I remember."

As the two respectfully nodded and turned to leave, Phillip stopped them by grabbing them both gently by the hands as he let a tear or two stroll down his face. The two were clearly confused, and surprised; Phil was an inherently reserved person, one who would postpone showing his true feelings as long as possible; his emotional outpour at the moment implied that he, for the first time in a while, felt unsure of himself, though he was also still grateful for having friends in dark times.

"Thank you, both of you; this nation…I…owe you a greater debt than can be paid."

"Phil, we would never abandon or this country, even if the Tunnelers were on Vegas' doorstep." Boone said loyally.

"Hell, they could be on the 38's doorstep and I'd just be getting ready for the main fight!" Veronica said encouragingly.

The two left soon after, and Phillip sighed as he finally finished his last cake and wiped his eyes.

"Just another day at the office…"

_Whatever I did, I sure as hell don't deserve this. _Benny thought as he was forced down into a chair opposite of Kimball.

The thought that, had he tied up loose ends correctly, his plan might have worked still caused him to cringe. He still remembered that fateful day with vividness; that bastard Courier busted into his room and forced him to explain every aspect of his plan at gunpoint, including the functions of Yes Man and the Platinum Chip.

Benny only explained everything to buy enough time for his bodyguards to hear the ruckus, but Phillip had already been two steps ahead of him. He was broadcasting everything Benny said directly to Mr. House via his Pip Boy, which meant that, now that the "Big Man" knew of Benny's treachery, ramifications would surely ensue if he remained in Vegas, especially if any harm befell House's new associate. Pragmatic enough to realize he'd lost and too in love with himself to throw away his life for a hopeless cause, Benny called it quits and fled to California after surrendering the Chip. And now, here he was, likely to be made a lapdog by the NCR; things had a hell of a habit of getting bad for him when they were already so.

"Once more; who is this, and what purpose is he to serve?" Kimball reiterated.

Oliver, after suspiciously eyeing Benny as if he were eavesdropping on some run of the mill playground or classroom secrets, got up from his chair and moved around to Kimball's side of the table, for apparently no other reason than he wanted to be next to him.

"Sir, this is Benjamin, aka "Benny" Gecko, formerly of the "Chairmen" casino family, now just a wanderer whom we happened to know about. Like us, he was…inconvenienced, by Masterson. We don't know too much about him, other than that he tried to take over the Strip somehow; details are fuzzy, and he isn't terribly talkative, but I'll go out on a limb and assume that he is unhappy about being ousted; we can use that." Oliver explained.

"Plenty of people had their prospects ruined by that courier bastard; we don't capture all of them and ask them to help us. Get him out of here, I'm not interested in strays, especially not ones who, from my understanding, have already acted against NCR interests, would you extend this same invitation to Legionaries or centurions just because we happen to share an enemy?" Kimball said.

The Heavy troopers moved in to retrieve Benny, before being waved off by Oliver. Oliver bent down to ear level toward Kimball, who seemed fairly shocked/irritated that Oliver practically went against his direct orders.

"Sir, I know this may seem like a longshot, but this guy fared way worse than us; one day he was living in the lap of luxury with a plan for a coup that might have worked, the next day he was out in the wastes, scraping by. If you were in that situation and had the chance for revenge, wouldn't you take it?"

"Dammit Lee, he's too ambitious; you think for a second he'll be content with just vengeance?"

"No, I don't; first he gets his vengeance, then we let him run the Strip."

"I hope to God you're joking, Lee; him, on the Strip? I don't trust a New Vegan any more than I can throw one, I don't believe for a second that the Families weren't in on that little coup Masterson pulled."

"It'll work better with him running the Strip, Aaron. We can't be sure that the Families and the other establishments will accept us right off the bat, would you rather have a politician and an army from some place you've never been to ruling you, or a native New Vegan who'll look out for your interests? He'll act as an official representative of the NCR and an intermediary to the Families, for which he gets a commission; nothing big, 2 or 3 percent of all profits, and of course residence at the Lucky 38. This way we mediate the local insurrection that we would likely face trying to establish a representative on the Strip ourselves, we get the tax caps, and he gets the Strip with relatively few strings attached; everyone wins. Except Masterson, of course."

"And what happens if he wants the entire Strip for himself, NO strings attached? Who says he can't still execute whatever his plan was? Hell, he might even take control of the Securitrons like Masterson did, at which point we'd have another stalemate to add to the dreadfully long fucking list; if Masterson was able to do it, he might be able to to."

"Sir, I don't like admitting it, but Masterson is goddamn smart. He took control of the Securitrons because he had direct access to House and his databanks, and because he's an extraordinarily competent techno wiz; one in a million, that much can be validated based on his work for us, does this guy look on par with him in that area to you? To pull something like that off, this guy would need to have intricate knowledge, or have someone with intricate knowledge, regarding Securitron programming, and unless that someone is an actual Securitron, Masterson himself, or Robert Edwin House back from the damn grave, the implication that he could take the entire army for himself doesn't make a lick of sense to me. And I guarantee Masterson was already smart enough to make fail safes so no one else is able to take control of them; I'm telling you, he can't pull something like that off himself, he'll have no choice but to bend to us, he has nothing to bargain with."

Kimball considered for a moment, chewing on his glasses uninterestedly.

"Fine, it'll do. I take it you heard all of that? The general may have talents, but whispering isn't one of them. Do you accept these terms?" Kimball said to Benny.

"Baby, I hear everything; I still hear the haps in Vegas and the Mojave from time to time, and I sure as hell hear your spiel. It may not be my first choice, but I'd never turn down the chance to take a fink like him out of the game after what he did to me; the terms are cool, cool as ice. But we seem to be missing something critical here kids; there ain't nothing that's changed from when I tried to take that glitzy city for myself, why do you think you can take it now?" Benny asked.

"Because we think he'll be too busy dealing with another threat to notice we're on his front doorstep; we don't know anything further, you'll know when or soon after we know. But it's a big enough threat for him to shut down I-15 and claim that it's because of Legionary skirmisher parties which, obviously, we believe to be an erroneous claim; he's smart, but that won't change the fact that he'll be distracted. And I wouldn't be too surprised if the actual Legion showed up to take advantage of the situation either, let's see him take on two armies at his flanks." Kimball explained.

"Hmm, it's tempting baby, but I don't want to lose everything I have again; I got out with my life last time, I may not hit a jackpot like that again. Yeah, I guess this works; we're smooth as kittens baby, smooth; I'm at your whim." Benny said in his typical obnoxiousness.

"Good, I think… Oh, and don't call me baby. You'll have access to whatever you need that's within reason; just use our resources sparingly, they aren't terribly plentiful these days. If you're caught we disavow any knowledge of you and leave you to your fate. It's not personal, just business." Kimball turned to Oliver, indicating that he was uninterested in going over logistics himself.

"Oh, uh, right. Your first assignment is to use some of those old contacts that we're almost certain you have, and dig up some allies; none of the formal factions though, we don't suspect that they'd go against Masterson just yet. After gathering your allies, you'll wait for our message, infiltrate Vegas, and shut down the Securitrons; taking them as soldiers is pretty unlikely, but I'm sure he's got a master power switch lying around somewhere. After that, just hold up and wait for us to arrive; don't be surprised if the Families turn against you, lethal force is authorized if necessary, but the less bloodshed the better; that won't help our cause." Oliver explained.

"Excuse me, but it's my opinion that we're missing something here." Hsu said in his first words in a while.

"Oh? And what is that, Colonel?" Kimball asked with barely any interest.

"If there's something in the Mojave that's got Masterson spooked this bad, it could be a threat to us to; I think we should consider sending military aid instead of an attack force, and-"

"We don't send aid to traitors, James; that's common sense. Whatever is threatening him is something that he'll likely be able to defeat, but not without effort; then, we neutralize him and his regime, and take what's been rightfully ours for years." Moore stated almost aggressively.

_Why did I even bother? _Hsu thought to himself as he reentered what some might almost say resembled catatonia.

"Enough, enough; back to the matter at hand. Benny, we have a Vertibird waiting about a kilometer from here; you'll be flown to the Mojave Outpost, at which point you'll be responsible for inserting yourself into the Mojave. Contact Captain Rigby at the Outpost if you need anything; we'll radio ahead with authorization for supplies and direct radio contact. Oh, and stay off the roads; that's a good way to get caught, which would put a dent in our plans the size of a building." Oliver stated.

"Baby, what's that supposed to mean? They ain't patrolling for beasties off the roads, why would I take the chance of avoiding 'em just so they don't spot me?" Benny asked.

"You're a big boy, and you've survived on your own this long; I'm sure you'll be fine. Get a change of clothes if that doesn't inconvenience you too much; you stick out like a sore thumb, how do you think we found you? Anyway, for formalities sake, you're doing the NCR a great service; you will be rewarded for your hard work and loyalty as soon as possible, etcetera etcetera. Godspeed, and good hunting; naturally, I hope our policy regarding failure is common sense to you." Oliver stated in something of an attempt at intimidation.

"I'm at your Republic's service, baby; you'll be hearing from me soon, and if I'm lucky, our mutual friend Masterson will be hearing from me soon as well." Benny said with a smile as the three hulking troopers escorted him out of the room.

For something of an inauspicious start, Benny hadn't done too badly in the long run; he had the support of a corrupt politician and a rogue general, and plenty of resources; all he had to do was chip in his share of the work, submit to the Republic's ultimate sovereignty, and he'd have a cozy position for what would hopefully be many years to come. "Submit to the Republic's ultimate sovereignty", Benny couldn't help but snicker at the implicational idea as he was escorted out of the building.

_Please… _


	6. Chapter 6

-I've decided to take a hiatus from my other story; sorry if that's bothersome to some since I have gotten some generally positive reviews, but the more I think about it, it's just pretty flawed, I need to think about where I'm taking it. I like some of it, it just feels like I've screwed up pretty bad at this point, I don't know, I'm confuzzled. So, that means I'll have more time to work on this. I once more attempted to make borders between the stories, but I'm not holding my breath, I anticipate failure on epic proportions once more. Sorry if this didn't feel worth the wait, I've been a little busy. Oh, and I'm willing to hear recommendations for detours where I can take this; when I say that, I mean that I know where the central plot is heading, but any suggestions you have for some side plots will be heard out since I'm a bit stumped on that one, I don't want to rush straight to the finish or have this be over too soon to the point of dissatisfaction or anything (insert raunchy joke here). Please just message me if you have suggestions since knowing where the story is likely headed just by looking at the reviews section would probably take away from the story's charm. So, review, enjoy, all the same old hullabaloo :)

When it boiled right down to it, little ever really changed in post-apocalytia; there just another dawn signaling the start of a new day (as if when it was considered customary to sleep and rise was fundamental in the functioning of the Strip or its denizens), just a few more revelers stumbling about searching for wherever their next picnic might be, just a few more prostitutes plying their trade in seedy Freeside back alleys, just a few more Securitrons maintaining meticulous patrol schedules as predetermined by Yes Man, just the typical glitz and zest that pervaded the Strip and shone over all other areas of the city, as if to imply that it was inherently superior, and would always be overshadowing and supervising the other neighborhoods; in short, it was just New Vegas.

And yet, at the same time, so much regarding the Mojave's future had changed in such a short time. Two years ago, the die had been cast (after being loaded) and the numbers favored Phillip; the NCR, Benny, House, and the Legion had all doubled down, but ended up losing the entire pot in the end. Now, the opportunity for tripling down presented itself; the die was more even this time around, and another player took its place at the table to replace the one that wasn't coming back. Phillip had to take into account and compensate for the fact that his dream for New Vegas had a chance of losing, and others had the chance to impose their own notions.

Each side had what could be perceived as fortes in the game; the NCR had its craftily constructed and deliberately ambiguous politics, the Legion had its brutal straightforwardness that it didn't waste time bothering to obscure, and the Tunnelers had the lack of principles that were present in even the lowest and most detestable of the other three that dictated predictable courses of action. But, Phillip had secrecy; when he made a hand, he didn't show it, Mr. House and Benny weren't as shrewd in such regards. Unfortunately, he didn't know exactly what his hand was just yet, other than that the aforementioned player most lacking in principles was coming with him if he had to leave the table to the mercy of the Bear and Bull's jingoism.

"Since we're the ones going into the skin flaying, monstrosity filled disaster zone, you'd think that we would at least be done the courtesy of punctuality." Veronica said dryly as she paced slowly back and forth in the Lucky 38 Penthouse.

"Caravan companies like to beat around the bush, drag things out, in the hopes of ruffling enough feathers to renegotiate the prices." Boone said with slight cynicism.

Of course, regardless of Boone's overall misanthropy, he couldn't have been too far wrong. He was obviously more of a soldier than an economist, but the NCR was a very trade oriented nation regardless; it could be reasonably assumed that one who had lived there for the majority of their life had at least some rudimentary knowledge regarding its trade and caravan politics.

"Do either of you see something a bit wrong with this idea? He just got back, and now he wants to send you two to the Divide? And why do you both need to go? I can't help but voice my opinion that sending most of our ministers abroad is a tad...impolitic." Arcade Gannon said peevishly.

Before the subject could be debated further, Phillip and Cass emerged from the elevator above the three, and both descended into the dining room.

Veronica took a moment to allow nostalgia to flow over her; she may have had more of a propensity for women, but the two always seemed so happy when they were together, like they both had purpose with each other outside of just working together, she could sympathize with that. Now, there was a certain coldness, an air of "just business" pervading the space between them, keeping whatever still existed between them from being fostered or culminating, it was really rather sad.

"The revenue just came through for the Securitron deal; it covered production costs with 60 percent profit, not bad for a brewing catastrophe zone, that'll contribute to our other projects substantially. The supply caravans, troops, and workers are already stationed outside of Primm awaiting orders." Phillip said as he entered the dining room.

"How do you already have the supplies ready if the money only just came through?" Arcade inquired.

"Call it executive decision; some supplies were…_commandeered_ from Crimson Caravan and the Van Graffs after it was determined by the majority of the Council that they owed the Mojave something back considering how much they make off of us." Phillip said with an obscure smirk.

"Stealing caravan products interferes with free enterprise, you know." Boone said truthfully.

"Like I said, "commandeered" is a better word, I'm not spending treasury money with revenue as low as it is right now. Call it an operating cost if you want to spin it. They'll get theirs back in due time, likely with a little interest."

"You aren't worried they'll run to the NCR with this?" Veronica noted.

"They're making more money than they're losing with their military contracts, so turning on me just because they don't like paying a little extra would be rather asinine assuming they want to maintain high profit margins. And unless they've both suddenly embarked on a crusade of altruism, they DO love their profit margins. Of course, that didn't stop Gloria and Alice from bitching up a storm. Anyway, the vertibird's out front, I'll see you both off if you're ready."

Arcade raised his hand, as if he needed permission to speak, then did so anyway.

"Phil, we were about to converse on that point; we…well, I… don't feel that sending our ministers away so impetuously is intelligent, so I'd like to request that you reconsider sending at least one of them, I'm sure Veronica especially has plenty of utility outside of this sort of thing."

Phillip looked over Boone and Veronica, and shrugged.

"Well, that's…certainly not a terrible point, I'm sure that the Think Tank wouldn't object to additional consult regarding their projects wherever we can acquire it. Boone, any objections to going solo?"

Boone looked at Veronica briefly, then back to Phil after taking off his glasses for possibly the first time in months.

"I don't know enough about handling radioactive material to oversee this sort of thing myself, and I know even less about technology; we may find something else there that we could use there, or need to get around, and we won't get very far on my expertise."

Phillip scratched his head, and let out a heavy sigh; this was a difficult situation, few in the Mojave had enough experience technology wise to oversee a project of such massive scope, and fewer still were willing and able. Fortunately, (or possibly unfortunately, depending on respective perceptions) Veronica had a proxy in mind.

"Phil, may I suggest something that you're not going to like?"

Phillip looked confused for a moment, but then realized just what was being suggested when Veronica pointed sheepishly to his Pip Boy.

"Goddammit, Veronica, don't put me in this position; we can't…"

"He's not a fighter, Phil; he won't be a problem, especially not with Boone and an army around. And he knows a hell of a lot more about handling nuclear material than I do, we could use him. Whether or not we like it Phil, he's a genius; sort of a...twisted one, no doubt, but beggars can't be choosers."

"I'm not worried about him being problematic; I'm worried about him being an obsessed murderer, you know what he did. Veronica, this is based on principle, not utility. Do you realize what people are going to say when they find out that this guy is anywhere but a maximum security facility? I can't even tell you why he's alive right now other than something as tritely liberal as "we're not animals"."

"That doesn't sound like the way you typically think, Phil; if we're going to survive, we need to start using what we have, we can't let ideals get in the way of that. I'm not looking forward to making the proposition myself, but it…needs to be done."

Unfortunately, Veronica was right; committing to ideals in a world full of "next best things" and compromises was a good way to end up dead or severely hampered, his pragmatism won out once more over his values in the end.

"Drive a hard bargain; he gets his freedom if this pays off, and under no circumstances is he to be by himself without surveillance. Any funny business, and he'll be shot."

"A bit merciless, don't you think?"

"A bit direct, maybe, it's hard for me to believe that being shot is something that he doesn't deserve in the long run, though."

"Hmm, well, point taken." Veronica looked almost insulted by the statement, but deep down, she clearly knew that Phil was right; whatever happened, _he'd _obviously changed, and there wasn't any denying it. She gave a nod in acceptance.

Phillip returned the nod, and turned to Boone.

"You should start getting ready if you haven't yet, looks like your departure is being delayed a bit, might take us a while to charm our old friend. Veronica, Arcade, please contact the Think Tank, see if those tissue samples I sent have yielded anything yet."

The three all exited the premises, leaving Phil and Cass alone together.

Cass, with her next action, implied that being around Phil was unbearable to be around for her without alcohol as she went toward the fridge to grab a whiskey.

"I figured you'd be more pleased after hearing I cracked the Van Graffs and Crimson Caravan so good." Phillip said almost pompously, immediately regretting his pretentiousness.

Veronica whipped around from the fridge and, after taking a swig of the newly acquired drink, bit back.

""Cracking" them doesn't make getting into bed with them any better, Phil; fucking murderers are staying in business because of you." Cass said saucily.

Cass' rebut may not have been meant to be taken literally, but it warranted essentially the same reaction that actually sleeping with the two would have from the sassy redhead. Gloria and Alice were by no means anything other than "ruthless bitches" (as articulated by Cass) but pragmatism had to prevail above vindictiveness; they, along with the Gun Runners, were essentially the only trading companies organized and wealthy enough to supply both the NCR and the Union, so personal preference had to be placed at the bottom of the list of priorities. Of course, convincing the already hotheaded Cass to accept her company's eliminators as business partners was an exercise in futility, to put it gently.

"You know I didn't want to, Cass; they needed a new business partner, I needed supplies for an army, and they're the only ones organized enough to provide them at the amounts we need. We didn't have a choice; you don't have to hate me because I accepted that."

"Yeah, Phil; you're a goddamn hero, thanks for making all the tough choices so us little people don't have to." Cass said with a tone that indicated slight intoxication was setting in as she continued to chug the whiskey at a faster rate.

"Cass, you shouldn't-"

Going for the whiskey was a bad move; Phil received a backhand across the left cheek for his concern as Cass dropped the bottle to the floor.

She regretted it fairly immediately; she may not have been particularly fond of him at the moment, but he didn't deserve THAT for trying to help her.

"I'm sorry." Cass said quietly.

Uninterested in perfunctory apologies, Phil made an effort to grab her by the waist in a manner clearly intended to lead to intimacy, but she rebuffed him and pulled away.

"Phil, I can't."

"Why not? Cass, I care about you, I always have; if I've done anything that made you feel like I didn't, then I'm sorry. If I had a time machine, I would fix everything I've ever done that's hurt you. Please, I…want you in my life, I've-I don't think I've ever felt this way about someone."

Cass looked reasonably moved by the sincerity of the normally impassive Phil, but also afraid; how long was she supposed to wait for him to stop hurting her for the sake of his politics? A year? Two? Three? She couldn't live like this, she didn't want to, him saying that he loved her didn't automatically preclude any harm he might inflict on her in the future, this simply wasn't a life she wanted.

"I…just can't."

With that, Cass retreated back up the steps and into the elevator, mirroring how their last conversation ended at the Vikki and Vance.

Arcade came back into the room about thirty seconds later to see Phil slouched in the chair, alone, and finishing a bottle of vodka.

"Bad day?" Arcade asked playfully.

"Bad everything." Phillip responded ruefully.

"Well, I'm… sorry to hear that, Phil." Arcade said sincerely.

"Well, Veronica has established contact with the Think Tank, I figured me being there for the meeting was gratuitous. Was there…anything else you needed from me?" Arcade asked.

Phil wiped a soupcon of whiskey from his lips, and leaned against the table as he stood up.

"I do have something I think you can help with. Our foreign policy is a mess right now, considering it consists entirely of the silent treatment whenever we're pressed. I want to mitigate this as much as possible, our deception likely won't go unnoticed for very long. If the Legion masses for an attack, which I suspect it will try to do, then we'll just have to contend with it. Thankfully, our options with the NCR are more flexible. I want you to go to Shady Sands yourself; answer questions, but don't be straight to the point. Be polite, but don't be timid. Be smart, but don't be a wiseass."

As Phillip predicted, Arcade didn't look terribly content with the proposal; he half expected a finger wag with the critical look on his face, but one of his more typical cheeky responses followed.

""I want you to go to Shady Sands yourself." Hmm, forgive me if I suggest that perhaps attempting to confabulate with the war profiteering republic is something of a waste of time; if they want to invade us, they'll justify it somehow, whether or not we do them the dignity of implying that they're worth what little time we have. And, as I'm sure you know, about two dozen NCR citizens are "missing" on our watch. I think that's a little beyond "they took a wrong turn" being a valid retort, don't you? I'll disregard your request as alcohol induced delusions."

Phil rubbed his head, indicating that he wasn't suited physically for Arcade's snark today.

"Arcade, we've got to try. Military ramifications aside, I don't actually want to go to war with NCR; they…aren't all bad, and you know it. I think we have a real chance to make a healthy partnership with the NCR, soon. Not hegemony, not a stalemate, a real alliance. They're not evil; just flawed, like all of us. Please, if you believe in any of what I've just said, do what I'm asking you to."

_I keep forgetting to ignore him when he goes into persuasion mode. _Arcade thought.

"I'll be ready by tomorrow." Arcade said as he departed for the elevator.

"Thank you." Phillip said quietly outside of Arcade's earshot.

Phillip tossed the bottle into a trash receptacle across the room, and moved over to the window to look at his home once more, all with the same degree of uncertainty and sadness he'd started to make a habit of reflecting.

"If there's a God out there, please help us."

"Does the yellow tie imply that I don't take this seriously enough, you think?" Kimball queried regarding his necktie assortment to Oliver, who stood awkwardly by the door to Kimball's office in spurious patience.

Oliver was at a loss for words; he was a general, not secretary of fashion advice. Surely there must have been more qualified people for the more mundane areas of Republic politics, such as this. Regardless, his sycophantism demanded that he give a response consistent with that of a yes man.

"Uh, well, I…rather like the yellow one sir but, may I suggest the red one? It accentuates your influence, your power, and brings out your eyes fairly well." Oliver regretted the last part the moment he said it; flattery was one thing, but one who didn't know any better would have interpreted his conclusion as a prelude to courtship. Kimball knew better than to take the awkwardness of Oliver seriously, though. Kimball tossed the yellow one over his shoulders and observed the red one Oliver had suggested.

"Hmm…red. Red is good; strong. Enthusiastic, but not zealous. Of course, red could also be interpreted as aggressive; if people think our core intent is military action, the support we gather could be limited, especially from the pacifists." Kimball observed fastidiously.

_Hmph. Since when did we have a lot of pacifists? And since when was military action not our intent? _Oliver thought in a frustrated and surprisingly sincere mental admission at his friend's refusal to admit what most already knew; the senator actually seemed to believe his own lies.

Regardless of Kimball's war hawk personality and military background, politics was his true area of proficiency; aside from being charismatic and well spoken, he could see the consequences and implications of every action, could analyze the meaning of even the most subtle actions of his opponents, and always finagled, flummoxed and, perhaps most importantly, sidestepped the true issues whenever possible (as he just had). Oliver, however, was not as gifted in such regards.

He took a hammer approach to the surgical approach, he used the stick instead of the carrot, he used shock and awe instead of hearts and minds. He would always be the enforcer instead of the shot caller, no matter what he did. The Mojave was his chance to prove otherwise, and he watched it dissipate in front of him. What chance did he have now to amount to anything more than a bureaucrat in military uniform? If any, it was with Kimball, he would just have to contend with his friend gradually becoming more and more of a politician and less of the general that he'd known and respected as the days passed.

Kimball placed the yellow and red ties back into his desk drawer, just prior to retrieving another one. It was a patterned tie, navy blue with white pinstripes, and a few wrinkles present that indicated it had been stuffed in the drawer and left to collect dust a while ago.

Kimball eyed the tie poignantly, the way a person would eye an item representing a childhood memory that had fallen into obscurity in the confines of one's mind; the tie told a story, but not one as fond as a child's first game of baseball with his father, not one as precious as a memento of a child's first pet, and certainly not one that Kimball wanted to remember or have be remembered.

"I wore this tie when I decorated that kid at Hoover Dam two years ago, the day Masterson saved my life. We all thought that he was such a great asset, some sort of Messiah come to answer our prayers and save us from those Legion savages, then we realized that he was just clever, and knew how to play two different sides. After he took the Dam, I wondered for weeks why he even bothered, why I was still alive, why he didn't just let me die."

"Maybe he was afraid that Congress would authorize military action against him once he took the Dam since, had he allowed you to die, it might have been viewed as him being deliberately hostile since he had the chance to save you." Oliver suggested with slightly less than enthusiasm and a bit more than half-heartedness.

As if Oliver hadn't uttered a word worth listening to, Kimball offered a varying explanation.

"He could have done anything he wanted; he had the advantage, he could have directed that Boomer artillery right at the Mojave Outpost and so long as he didn't directly invade us, we wouldn't have done a thing in reprisal. Sometimes I think he wanted me to live with the shame, to know that I had my ass saved by a fucking traitor, to know that he held my life in his hands and saved it because he chose to, not because he had to or because he would have benefited from doing so. Maybe he wanted to remind me that life was fickle, and I wouldn't be on top forever, that he could change fortunes with a flick of the wrist. Why do you think he let _you _live, Lee?" Kimball said inexpressively, and asked almost rhetorically.

Oliver shrugged, but otherwise made no expressions. Regardless of his simplistic response, such thoughts had crossed his mind more often than not; if Oliver were to be frank, sometimes he wished he hadn't left the Dam on his feet that day. People hushed when he passed, the hushes were sometimes followed by whispers of which no efforts were made to hide tones of derisiveness. The bold would occasionally be outright contemptuous, in the form of harassment and otherwise unsavory behavior.

What did he have to return to? He was unmarried, had friends that were more associate-like than chummy, and was largely considered to be more of a glory hound than a true leader of men; the hope of victory and fame were the only things that he had to hold himself to, and they had long since slipped away from his grasp. If it wasn't just a whimsical decision, Oliver must have been allowed to live just to suffer.

Kimball continued to eye the tie for another few seconds, before making a loop and pulling the rest of it through, and finally tightening it to precision. Oliver assumed that, regardless of the bitterness of the memories that the tie aroused, this was Kimball's way of facing his fears and hesitations. A bit too symbolic to be entirely relevant, perhaps, but it was undeniably still progress.

"I'm ready, are you coming?" Kimball asked dominantly.

"I'll…let you deal with Congress, sir; I was never much one for public speaking." Oliver said timidly.

Without another word, Oliver moved aside from the doorway and allowed Kimball to pass through, then slouched into the chair opposite of Kimball's side of the desk, and continued to mull over his previous feelings of aimlessness.

_What's the point anymore? I'm already fucked. _Oliver thought pessimistically, though admittedly also realistically; of all the odium that he'd earned, he received none greater than that which he directed at himself. Some at least acknowledged that, regardless of his overall inaptness, his situation was almost completely untenable, and that none could have foreseen Masterson's double cross; he, however, didn't share such an opinion. After four years of support in almost every way imaginable from his country, he had nothing to show for it; contrarily, the country that had given him his life, his reputation, and his livelihood had suffered on account of his ineptitude, particularly due to his inability to distinguish friend from ambitious foe masquerading as a friend. He let his country down; he knew it, he resented it, and he had yet to even start coming to terms with it. If he no longer cared about himself, how could he expect anyone else to?

He eyed the magnum on his waist, contemplating the power it symbolized, and the potential freedom it represented; his problems would all erode away with just a squeeze.

He drew the revolver from his holster slowly, and checked the cylinder to make sure he'd remembered to place rounds in it that day, a habit he'd formed that was representative of his on edge and battle ready personality.

He drew back the hammer and heard the shell load into the barrel, ready to relieve him of more than just his command. He positioned the revolver firmly under his chin, and prepared for his liberation.

And yet, he couldn't bring himself to depress the trigger; his reluctance wasn't even under false impressions of optimism that things would somehow become better for him given time, he couldn't even express it in words if he was pressed to, he just…couldn't do it.

_No…Not like this._ Oliver thought pitifully.

He took the magnum away from his chin, allowing it to clatter to the floor, and cupped his face in his hands in complete surrender to his helplessness. He couldn't even take himself out of his own nightmare, let alone resolve it, he had become the epitome of pathetic, a creature so pathetic that it was unworthy of anything other than suffering, without even the hope for emancipation to foresee favorably; could even God (if such a thing still or ever existed) pity such a being?

Oliver had been holding his breath for what felt like years, and suddenly released it with a quiet exhale once he became more perceptive of reality.

Without any provocation, Oliver suddenly chuckled, prior to it becoming a snicker, which turned into something that could be described only as a cackle one might associate with the mentally unsound.

It filled all four corners of the office quickly, and soon carried out into the hallways, disturbing several dawdling officials with its shrillness.

"What do you think that's all about?" An uninterested middle aged economist asked an idle marshal smoking a cigarette just down the hall.

"Sounds pretty forced, probably just a flatterer responding to a bad joke." The two men laughed together, as per the appropriate social cue.

In reality, what was happening in the room wasn't nearly as jovial as the two made it out to be; in fact, had it been before the war when such sciences were more commonly practiced, it would have been a fascinatingly disturbing opportunity for study of the human psyche, and the extent of its fragility.

It wasn't the laugh of a sycophant in his latest show of boot licking, nor was it the laugh of someone who'd just bared witness to the irony of life in its least pernicious form, nor was it even the laugh of someone with a healthy sense of humor who had heard something genuinely comical.

It was the laugh of a man who'd been broken, of a man who had nothing left to utilize for coping, let alone escapism; what could such an individual do? What hope was there? When nothing else remained, such an individual could only...laugh.

Kimball strode down the hallway toward the Congress Assembly Hall, the heels of his shoes clicking on the moderately well-kept marble floor as he went. He always enjoyed the conspicuousness of the shoes; it was something of an unspoken rule that only those of importance would and could be pretentious enough to wear such shoes, so as to confirm among the bureaucrats and other lower level employees which people were to be owed the most respect in the building.

For some reason, as he walked down the hallway past an almost countless number of offices, Kimball only just started to appreciate how much of a well-oiled machine the expansive government was. For all the flaws of the country itself, the Hall of Congress affirmed that republic politics maintained consistency and meticulousness; advisers still advised, administrators still administrated, and bureaucrats still performed their tasks (for lack of a better word to express said tasks).

And yet, even after attaining such vast territory in such a short time, even after exceeding a population of 700,000, it was never enough for some, Kimball himself included. To them, whether people saw it, respected it, or even cared about it, the NCR brought civilization to the wastes. Machiavellian politicking and occasional subjugation may have taken more dominant roles in things than what was preferable, but it wouldn't always be that way; just until real security could be secured.

House had his indifference, the Legion had its brutality, and Masterson had his deceptiveness; each flawed, each pursuing their own agendas, and yet, the NCR was the faction seen as particularly antagonistic simply because it did what had to be done? Whoever drew and, in turn, spread that inference had some seriously misplaced priorities. Whether it garnered praise or ire, the NCR's job wasn't done yet, and it wouldn't be done until it had assimilated everything it could, and Kimball, and men like him, would be damned if anyone interfered with that.

Kimball reached the end of the hallway and pushed open the doors to the Congress Assembly Halls, and was pleased to find that he had the attention of all in the room before he even delivered his address.

The room was surprisingly diminutive and plain; for being the assembly place of Congress, little luxury was afforded for the room. A banner of the NCR two headed bear hung on the left wall, and a single table occupied the majority of the room, just barely large enough to accommodate each Congressman. It felt more like a meeting place for a board of directors or shareholders than a Congress Hall (perhaps meant to reflect business' extreme application of influence over Republic politics). Of course, no one in the room would admit, even to each other, that their appointments had been paid for by businesses and interest groups, so the room's size was likely just extemporization.

Representatives congregated more towards the left part of the room, while the senators massed more to the right, perhaps to represent the fact that the representatives tended to be more slightly more liberal and pacifistic than the senators (regardless of the fact that, as was common knowledge, there were very few such peace cherishing individuals anyway).

Kimball took his place at a podium set up near the table, and pulled his glasses from his suit pocket and put them on, even though he'd brought nothing to read; this was a habit he'd developed that he didn't know how to explain, perhaps he just enjoyed reading people more than he did cue cards.

"Ladies, gentlemen, representatives, senators, we gather here today to once more serve our great nation, and to penalize those who would see its progress hindered." Kimball started cordially, while also mixing business in with the pleasantries.

"Congress recognizes Senator Kimball." The portly Senator of Dayglow, Brooks, said formally.

Kimball nodded to his informal ally respectfully, and delivered his proposal.

"It's no secret that we have citizens missing somewhere in the Mojave that should be in Vegas by now as we speak, and it's also no secret that we've been stonewalled about it; if they want us to believe that these travelers are just slowpokes, they're not doing an exceptional job. Friends, we all know where this is going anyway, and you all know what I'm suggesting; I just want to take the initiative."

Kimball's controversial implication caused several whispers of debate, until the frail and elderly looking Senator of the Boneyard, DeFranco, spoke his piece.

"Now, Senator, we all know that Masterson is a traitor, but he isn't a murderer; we've profited off of trade with him, and he has a decent record to be quite frank. That aside, I also happen to think he's sensible enough to not just murder our citizens and, moreover, his customers."

"Who said I think he killed them, Tim?" Kimball said in seemingly intentional mysteriousness.

"Then, what do you think happened, Mr. Kimball?" A less than vital representative asked.

Kimball grinned slightly, essentially saying "I'm glad you asked."

"We've been sold a story about the Legion, and how some remnants based somewhere up in the mountains are still raising havoc that we can't risk subjecting caravans to, but I've been advised not to believe this given the fact that they patrol the roads with, to be blunt…efficiency far beyond what we could have patrolled them with. Ergo, I believe there's something else that he has to be much more worried about, likely somewhere around I-15 since it's been shut down; if something has him scared this much, then we can use that." Kimball said slightly grudgingly in regards to admitting that Masterson kept the roads safe better than the entire NCR did.

More whispers ensued, until DeFranco rebuked once more.

"Aaron, you know this is all farfetched. For all we know, this is just him covering himself because the Legion killed those tourists themselves; I'm sure we'd try to dodge and evade if someone else's citizens were killed on our watch, to."

"Do you really think the army of a crippled empire really made it this far west just to attack our people, or did something happen to them because of something Masterson knows he can't control? Why not just tell us forthright if the "Legion" killed our citizens? What would he have to worry about? He'd still be at no military disadvantage; I suggest you think before you speak, Tim."

DeFranco snorted jadedly, and didn't bother indirectly feeding Kimball's ego any further. With his major oppositionist seemingly out of the way, it seemed everything was going according to plan.

The resolute former president was feeling confident to the point of arrogance today, paying no heed to the maxim "the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry"; in his mind, nothing could stop him now, Congress was getting the point.

"If the Mojave's really in danger, then why did Masterson just make a deal with a couple of trading companies for a new model of Securitrons when they could have been used to combat this so called "threat"?"

The voice belonged to the grizzled old former NCR Ranger Chief Hanlon, who was now serving as Senator of Redding. He was one of the few high ranking military officials who could say that he was glad that Masterson interfered at Hoover Dam; the rangers still garnered praise once more for being instrumental in the ousting of the Legion from the western side of the Colorado, and, even more, he'd gotten what he'd wanted all along; the NCR out of the Mojave.

Hanlon had always seen the war as more one of political expedience beyond its ostensible humanitarianism, and his behavior had reflected it as he drifted more and more into disillusionment with his country's proclivity for Pyrrhic victories; too many kids had died for what was essentially an oversized wall, and even more had died for a glitzily self-indulgent city that profited no matter which side held its reins, no matter which side shed its blood to keep it in a position from which it could continue to satisfy its patrons' desires.

There certainly weren't many in similar positions who shared his sentiments, but Hanlon had a grudging respect for Masterson; while he had, as most would conclude, attained his position through trickery, Hanlon could see that he respected the Rangers' ideals, and he spared them from the casualties of what likely would have been a full scale invasion of Legion territory within a few years.

In response to the aimless bloodshed he'd been forced to contend with over the years, as a politician, he adopted some liberal values, and inhibited belligerents, such as Kimball, whenever he could.

Kimball, for one of the few times in his life, was at a loss for words; DeFranco was a respectable opponent, but Hanlon was damn resolved when it came to affairs of military, he wasn't backing down any time soon.

"Hanlon, you… can't assume that every course of action this guy takes is going to have an explanation, he may have just not wanted to break the deal so as not to arouse suspicion." Kimball said halfheartedly. He knew he'd lost the moment he said it, this quasi explanation was essentially just him thrashing in the water to avoid drowning. It may have been right, but it was too outlandish to be believable at the moment.

Hanlon took a sip of water as calmly as a coma, and responded to Kimball so politely that it almost came off as condescension; after all, everyone knew that the two didn't even come close to seeing eye to eye during the Mojave Campaign, and this bastard was still playing politics, fostering the notion of sending more kids to their deaths for resources.

"We all know that this is a cause you're particularly passionate about, Aaron, but sometimes you just gotta' know when to call it quits and fold 'em; I think I speak for the majority of my fellow Congressmen when I say that the answer to your request is no, our country's had enough war."

Reality was more along the lines of his fellow Congressmen being pragmatic enough to see the ramifications of military action against a superior force so soon after an economically grievous war as opposed to them genuinely valuing concord, but Hanlon still spoke the truth; no voices were raised to indicate that Kimball had major supporters at the present time.

Kimball felt a mix of anger and surprise; anger that this wasn't a development he'd been made aware of sooner, and surprise that he didn't have the foresight to see that something along these lines was likely to happen. It was really quite logical that Masterson would use a red herring to throw off the NCR, but selling upgraded Securitrons that could have contributed greatly to the defense of the Mojave came off as so imprudent that it was fairly clever.

There wasn't anything else to be done today; Hanlon must have been consolidating support for his pacifistic movement prior to the session, and until there were new developments, nothing would justify military action just yet, so long as there was doubt. Kimball slowly folded his glasses up and placed them back into his suit jacket, and started going for the doors without another word. Before exiting, Kimball rotated himself partially and delivered what could be reasonably be construed as a threat.

"Our country was built on expansion at whatever cost, not contraction based on ideals; this isn't the last you've heard of this, there'll come a time when your constituents cease being content with paying more taxes than they're due because we were cheated out of what we spent years protecting. I suggest you all figure out which side you're on before then."

With that, Kimball strutted out of the room, forcing the doors open bitterly and pushing his way past anyone in his way until he was back at his office.

Kimball greeted his pristinely well-kept workplace and the still seated Oliver by trashing everything in sight; a couple of lamps suffered his anger, and several important papers were essentially reduced to recyclables.

One who had arrived in Kimball's office a minute later could have sworn that a storm had plowed through it, whereas in reality, Kimball simply wanted to adjust the room to reflect his temperament.

"Shortsighted, pedantic, stagnant imbeciles!" Kimball said with rage. Even in a state of fury, he maintained his eloquence, which was admirable in its own right.

Oliver had receded back into servility from his prior state of mania, and had already leapt up from his chair, as if being on edge during a superior's outburst was to be perceived as flattering behavior.

"S-sir, w-what happened?" Oliver asked apprehensively.

"They shot me down because Masterson sold some new sort of Securitrons to a couple of trading companies; they don't think someone under serious threat would do that. Is it THAT hard to see that he's just covering his ass? Pft, goddamn politics." Kimball said in disdainful irony.

Though Oliver's immediate reaction of was one of surprise and confusion, he soon steeled himself to carry out what would soon be the most assertive action he'd ever taken against one of higher status.

Kimball, still festering with anger, bent over and began to pick up some of the papers that had been casualties of his outburst, at which point Oliver lightly swatted them from his grip.

"Sit down, Aaron." Oliver said firmly, following up with a mild push that sent Kimball back into his chair.

Kimball was about to say something in outrage at Oliver's temerity, but was deterred by an intimidatingly firm looking expression from the general. Oliver was never like this, never so resolved or daring, it was as if he had become an entirely different person in Kimball's absence; had he finally snapped from the political and social pressure exerted over him in the past two years?

"We need to stop pretending that there's something to be done from all the way back here in Shady Sands, Aaron; Masterson will just keep outsmarting us, covering himself like the sly little bastard he is. Bears don't fight their enemies from afar; they get right in their faces, and start using their claws till there ain't nothing left but shreds. Pull some strings, get me stationed up at Mojave Outpost, and you have my word that, soon, you'll have Congress BEGGING to go to war just to watch that piece of shit hang, and nothing jeopardizing will get back to us."

Kimball may have been little more than a slightly more socially accepted version of a war profiteer, but he wasn't blind to the consequences of actions; Oliver was using dangerous words, and his vagueness didn't make them much safer.

"You should think before you act like th-erm, before you say things like that, Lee; people might…get the wrong impression." Kimball said with the utmost delicacy, so as not to incite more paroxysms of aggressive vindictiveness from the general.

"Do you trust me, Aaron?" Oliver said with clear expectance that the answer would be yes.

If nothing else, Kimball trusted that Oliver wanted reprisal, and was willing to dedicate his entire being to that notion. Such commitment could certainly be positively employed; whether or not the general's overall mental stability was to be trusted was a different story, however.

"Sometimes I'm… told I should reconsider doing so, but…overall…yes..." Kimball said, fearing what the reaction would be to an alternate response.

"Then why are you bothering to ask what I've got to do?"


	7. Chapter 7

**-A few announcements; first, I'm still taking suggestions for side plots. Also, guess I'll just have to say "Break" between stories since the breaks REFUSE to work no matter what I do. Apparently pressing enter multiple times between sections doesn't work, either; bloody site. There are a few Legion phrases used in here that I'm willing to explain if anyone wants to know, but I'd prefer not having to go through all of them if no one cares.**

**Oh, and if you're interested, I've decided what Phillip looks like; I..probably should have done this prior, sorry about that. I wanted to draw him to give myself more options, then I realized I can't draw for shit. I also considered just describing him, but that's another foible of mine. Essentially, imagine him looking like this: **

** images/search?q=barack+obama&view=detail&id=749BB4F5235342F5B0E31D7680EE AC4B72BAEB18&first=0&FORM=IDFRIR**

**Ok, I was joking about him looking like that; imagine him looking more along the lines of this:**

** . /_2kno5ZCvl5I/S8CASi6t0HI/AAAAAAAAADs/Sk2fZraRuBE/s320/brando_ **

**And usually wearing this:**

** images/search?q=grey+suits&view=detail&id=9F3D1A5CD8222E50BE4BD87313A3 981590FD11C5&first=31&FORM=IDFRIR**

**That's Marlon Brando if you were wondering (otherwise known as the greatest actor to ever exist in the history of…well, ever). I definitely imagined him being young, pale, well kept, and dark haired, so this worked. I also consider him more just handsome than a total pretty boy, so I like this look for him. (Oh, and don't ask me how he has such swag in an apocalyptic wasteland, I couldn't tell you, he's just that cool)**

**Well, review, enjoy, pan, praise, etcetera :P**

Chapter 7

_Dammit. _Benny thought angrily as he tried to force the lock open on the sewer grate, just a mile or so outside Westside.

Everything had gone well thus far; he'd infiltrated the Mojave just fine, had run into nothing more troubling than a bloatfly, and had a clearly set agenda in mind. Alas, trouble presented itself in something as petty as a LOCK.

_Could fate be so cruel that my journey's destined to end here? _He thought, part of him feeling as if he were reciting a Shakespearian sonnet and part of him trying create some levity in the situation. Either way, he was a hypocrite for accusing fate of being cruel when he was the one who was basically unscrupulous.

He scanned the seemingly empty yet exposed landscape as he contemplated his options, making sure no one was taking notice of him; against Oliver's suggestion, he'd kept his suit. The act was almost involuntary, and more in his nature; he did, after all, make himself conspicuous whenever he could when he still held one of Vegas' reigns, and anyone who had been a patron of Vegas for just a few years would likely recognize him. He couldn't deny it; he loved the limelight.

He could deny that he was in possession of an unusual lack of empathy in attaining praise and power, but beneath the foppish, almost goofy exterior, the oily hair, the checkered suit, and the forced smiles and joviality laid a darker personality; that of an exploitative narcissist, willing to manipulate his way into people's hearts and minds if they served his ends, and more than willing to see everything else fall down so he could rise.

_What the hell am I doing? _He realized suddenly.

Benny then drew Maria from his shoulder holster and shot the lock off, shielding his face with his left hand to make sure shrapnel didn't hit anything vital.

The grate came off easily once the lock was off, and was just wide enough for him to squeeze into.

Once he'd descended the ladder into the sewer, nothing was notable enough to imply this particular cesspool was distinguishable from all the other ones in Vegas; it was just another labyrinth with concrete pillars included almost excessively, as if added simply to confuse its traversers.

A less informed person would have been lost already, and would likely also have simply entered the sewer for prospecting; Benny was an exception on both accounts, however, he knew exactly what he wanted in the sewer, and he knew what made it different from all the other sewers in Vegas.

Perhaps the first thing that even an uninformed person would note was that there were no rats in this sewer; rodent infestations pervaded such secluded locations ninety nine times out of a hundred, yet in this one, there wasn't a single one to be seen, not even a corpse. Right off the bat, that was rather odd.

Benny proceeded through the sewer, until arriving at an open concourse-like room. There were three levels, each one essentially just comprised of catwalks. Stairs descended down from the upper level on the left and right sides of the room, splitting in half to connect to the two other floors while also running straight to the ground.

The slightest traces of light came in from skylights on the ceiling and the upper part of the far wall, but the room was otherwise dim. A few doors were visible on the upper level, and on the two levels following it. Of course, if nothing else, one was obliged to note the copious unrolled sleeping bags in the room, but even more so, the fact that the openness made for a likely ambush spot. Benny saw the capacity for such a trap immediately; such was his perceptiveness that he almost expected it even prior to entering, and yet…Maria stayed holstered.

Several armed figures burst into the room through the previously mentioned doors and took position on the catwalks, preparing their rifles to meet the threat that they were anticipating. And yet, their eyes were only met with Benny, little more than a physically average man with a strange haircut and tacky fashion taste.

A woman clad in leather armor sporting long red hair and wielding a 9mm pistol came forward last, clearly not as concerned as the rest of her people were with the newcomer. She positioned herself by a couple of soldiers, who were still regarding Benny as a threat, and took the initiative to confer.

"Well well well, look what the cat dragged in; so, why are you here, "fink"?" The woman said sourly in derision of Benny's New Vegan lingo.

"Nice to see you to, babe. What can I say? Looks like this desert just can't live without me." Benny said cleverly.

"I really want to kill you; you know that, right?"

"I think you're taking this all a bit personally, don't you?"

"Yeah, forgive me for taking issue with the fact that we're still being hunted like dogs because you were stupid enough to leave a paper trail."

Indeed; the infamous paper trail that condemned the group to exile, and a record that Benny was solely responsible for. The thought of doing something that didn't do his level of cunning justice was a bitter memory for Benny, and left a similarly acidic taste in his mouth.

The woman was a childhood friend of Benny's when he was still a tribal, and was on the more conservative side of the Boot Riders when Benny suggested that they align themselves with Mr. House. Instead of joining Benny after he defeated the old chieftain, she left for the wasteland with anyone and everyone who shared sentiments similar to hers, and she amassed followers surprisingly quickly, primarily of people seeking to avoid the corruption of New Vegas along with Mojave politics in general.

Benny had planned on using her people, as well as several other isolated tribes, to help police the Mojave after his grab for power, and was foolish enough to make a record of it all in his journal. After he fled Nevada, Phillip discovered the book and had the tribes systematically neutralized utilizing all of the information contained within to ensure that his rule had few to no such oppositionists; Elisa's group was the only one to endure (though they had taken significant casualties), and she had the good sense to know when to cut her losses and hide.

Benny grimaced at the reminder of his lack of responsibility in tying up loose ends, and tried to shrug it off.

"Duly noted, admittedly not one of my prouder moments."

"Definitely one of your dumber ones though, right?"

"Listen, baby, we don't need to be hateful, I came here in good faith to try to make up for my idiocy. Now, I can leave you cats to your fate since this doesn't really affect me one bit when it gets right down to it, or I can fix what I did."

Elisa looked to her left toward the one who was apparently her second in command, who shook his head in disagreement. She pursed her lips and rolled her tongue around in her mouth thoroughly, before finally rolling her eyes in reluctant willingness to treat.

"My room, now."

Benny was taken forcefully to Elisa's quarters despite the fact that he offered no resistance; a clear representation of simple spite on the part of his escorts. The room was utterly unremarkable, and was essentially just four walls and a ceiling save for her queen sized bed in the top right corner, and several shelves stacked with trinkets of various sorts, a few of which Benny recognized from personal experience. Regardless, the bed was more appealing.

_Definitely room for two…three would be fun, that blonde didn't look half bad. _Benny thought lustfully as he eyed up the bed.

_What right does he have to be so calm? This situation isn't nearly easygoing enough to be thinking about that. _Elisa thought as she correctly interpreted his desire.

Benny's capacity for insouciance blended with occasional optimism and just the right amount of realism was nothing short of remarkable; he didn't delude himself, and he never exaggerated his chances of success or survival. He knew very well that, once again, he was in a life or death situation, and he accepted the fact that he couldn't change that one essential truth. He was a gambler, he recognized that things would play out as fate intended them to with little to no chances for interference, and he would either live the high life or be reduced to scraping like the other dregs of society, he could never be sure where his hand would get him. Thusly, he compensated for the uncertainties of his life with hedonism; he took his pleasures where they could be found, even if they were somewhat scarce at present.

Once the two old friends were alone, Elisa took the chance to assault Benny's mouth with her tongue and constrain him to helplessness with her surprisingly brawny arms. Clearly, for all her bitterness toward him, the two had shared at least some pleasant memories in the past.

She set him free a few moments later, practically out of breath. Once he was released, Benny wiped his mouth almost proudly and took the opportunity to follow up the steamy kiss with wit.

"Nice to see you to, Elisa; and here I thou-"

Benny's wit was rewarded with a right hook across the face, not hard enough to do major damage, but just enough to be noticeably painful.

"Shut up." Elisa said crossly.

Benny spat a bit of blood onto the floor, at which point his ego almost mandated that he continue down the same glib path of conversation.

"Bipolar today, ain't we? I can dig that, kinda' kink-"

"I want you dead more than before now, if you want to say something, do it fast."

Realizing that lines needed to be drawn regarding playfulness where the feisty tribal was involved, Benny became more to the point.

"Alright, fair enough, how about I let these fellas speak for me, then?"

Benny reached into his coat and pulled a sizable pouch out, in which the unmistakable jingle of caps was audible, caps far more numerous than what could be obtained by run of the mill scavengers or prospectors. Elisa grabbed the pouch hastily and eyed it curiously, as if she had been a pariah for so long that the meaning of basic economic concepts such as money had eluded her.

"What, a get rich quick scheme? Is that what you came here for? If it is, just leave now, before I lose my patience."

Benny leaned against the door with his arms folded confidently, and corrected the misconception.

"Not exactly, you're looking at NCR funding, pussy cat; and any other supplies we want are just a call away. We got friends in high places, now."

Her curiosity turned into skepticism since such support from the Republic could only have come with strings attached, and a scowl overtook her face to reflect these feelings.

"And what could possibly inspire such generosity among those greedy bastards?"

"Greed, ironically. They want Vegas, I want Vegas, we all ain't so different once we stop to smell the roses. They know they can't take her on their own, though, and they know I'll do a better job at keeping those cats in line than they would."

Her curiosity sated, she quickly lost interest once she realized that she was just another pawn, again; it was getting caught up in these games of intrigue that got her into trouble in the first place.

"Ah, and you want me to help you, right? I should help the NCR take over the Mojave because it helps you elevate yourself? The Union isn't good for us, but I won't pretend I believe rolling over for the fucking Republic will be any better."

"I ain't rollin' over, and I don't expect you to either. Now, can we talk?"

Now that stood out; there was no way helping the Republic attain hegemony over the Mojave would leave wiggle or "I ain't rollin' over" room, so what was Benny's implication? If nothing else, it was at least worth hearing out, perhaps...maybe. THEN, she could kill him or have her way with him, depending on the convincingness of his argument.

"My interest is piqued; talk."

_**(BREAK)**_

While perhaps not entirely comparable to the days of Caesar's glorious rise to power, Arizona nonetheless bustled with purpose not seen for two years regardless of the flaws of its current purpose (those flaws being that the Legion still had no long term plans outside of its current vengeful agenda).

Tents were set up outside of the Council Building of Flagstaff in copious numbers, essentially making the Council Building impenetrable. The four Legionaries currently held with the most import, Lucius, Vulpes, Gaius, and Aurelius, established themselves in the building, effectively centralizing power in Flagstaff once more. Lucius stood over a map table in the bustling Assembly Hall, overseeing logistics for the upcoming (as he was hoping) attack.

"Send runners to centurions Publius, Cinna, and Aulus; they are to take their centuries to Two Sun immediately, the Legionaries there neglected to answer the call to Flagstaff, I want them eradicated if they're not going to be of any use to us. They are not to be dissuaded from their mission, even if the Legionaries are willing to submit; any survivors are to be crucified, and any slaves found serving them burned." Lucius ordered harshly to his assistant decanus.

A sigh made with no efforts to obscure it could be heard a few meters from the table, indicating there was at least one dissenter in the room.

"Speak, since you obviously have objections." Lucius said uninterestedly.

A predictably sly looking Vulpes straightened his previously crossed legs as he rose from the bench closest to the table, and strode over to the map table.

"Lucius, belligerence has its uses, but Caesar knew that our enemies are destroyed when we assimilate them; when we kill them, we attain nothing but profligate blood. While not of great value in and of itself, when not spilled blindly, it can be converted to the more precious commodity of Legionary blood." Vulpes said in an effort to deter Lucius with the slightly banal "he wouldn't have done that" argument.

"I am not Caesar. If I were, I would say setting examples also proves to be advantageous, much more so than exhausting large amounts of time and men attempting to bring the unchangingly obstinate under our thumb; perhaps the others will be more incentivized once they see what happens to those who don't bend knee to Caesar's rightful successor."

"My lord," the decanus assigned to send the runners who still hadn't left said, "is there any additional message for them?"

"Be brutal; make them remember why they feared Caesar's wrath, and remember to retrieve whatever supplies are stockpiled." Lucius said explicitly.

Vulpes preyed on what Lucius said once more; whether his less than unobtrusive opposition to Lucius' plans was out of spite or genuine concern was still unclear.

""Whatever supplies are stockpiled." Ah yes, that compensates for senselessly butchering valuable slaves and Legionaries. Lucius, the Legion has always been brutal when its survival is at stake, but it's never been foolish; my Frumentarii shall offer no support for endeavors equivalent to extermination of resources, you may as well dump our supplies into the Colorado if you plan on being so rash."

Lucius returned to staring at the map table, unintimidated by Vulpes' subtle threats.

"No one held you by a machete to get you here, Vulpes; if you have more promising plans for the resurrection of the Legion, by all means, put them into action on your own. Otherwise, yes, we do things my way, your Frumentarii are welcome and undoubtedly skilled, but the Legion will not, cannot, be hindered simply due to their absence. Regardless, your counsel is appreciated, and I will take your commentary under advisement." Lucius said almost childishly.

Regardless of his unequivocal seizure of power, some appeasement was in order since Lucius needed as many Legionaries as he could gather, and since Vulpes commanded considerable numbers, such disingenuous comments of praise were included thusly.

Seeing that the Praetorian was set on a path that he wouldn't be talked out of with such ease, Vulpes turned on his heel and ambled out of the Assembly Hall without another word, flaunting his discontentment as if it were a trophy.

Gaius Magnus, who observed concernedly from a communications table nearby, paced over to a musing Lucius.

"His unpredictability makes him dangerous; he may serve the Legion out of respect for Caesar, or betray it out of his disdain for you. Whatever he does, certainly don't expect him to submit so easily." Gaius warned in an attempt at shrewdness, essentially fancying himself as an adviser of sorts.

"I have no illusions regarding Vulpes; his guile is a weapon that can be used against both sides if he so chooses to use it as such. He'll be kept in check, and he'll be put in no positions which might make it possible for him to betray us." Lucius responded.

"That's rather general, I suggest ensuring, whenever the war begins, that Vulpes is binded to you, that he may never betray you without hurting himself, or even have the option presented."

"Wise counsel, amicus; vale, I have tasks to oversee elsewhere."

Lucius gave a comradely gesture which Gaius returned, and then exited the Assembly Hall into Caesar's old quarters at the back of the room, passing off the impression that he had more immediate tasks to supervise; in reality, he simply didn't want to be around Gaius.

As with Vulpes, appeasement was in order given Lucius' need for numbers, but it felt enormously like Magnus started striving more for political counsellorship than being the warrior that the Legion of old would have demanded he be. Lucius' newfound ideas could certainly be construed as progressive given his slightly less than immaculate consideration for how Caesar would have handled matters were he alive, but the Legion was still formed around war exponentially more than politics; that much could never be altered. If that essential truth were to be lost, the Legion would become another New California Republic; losing sight of its roots would be a debacle.

Caesar's lavish quarters reflected on his sense of entitlement that those who served and worshiped him blindly justified by his divine status; to those closer to him, by his ability to obtain practical results. Extravagant carpets, a desk that was eerily well kept for post apocalyptia, ornately woven bedding, and monuments to him positioned strategically around the room; the most conspicuous one was a painting hung on the far wall, right above the desk.

It was a remarkable likeness; Caesar was depicted standing proudly in the newly conquered Flagstaff, his arms folded confidently, and his Aquiline nose communicating the sense of nobility that was all but regarded as inherent.

Such was the imposingness of the piece that it almost seemed to be addressing Lucius; the sharp blue eyes of the man in the painting pierced through him, just as they had when he was more corporeal than spiritual.

_What are you doing? _It seemed to speak.

_Would you disregard my wish for a true Rome with not even the slightest inkling of reluctance? _It spoke once more.

Lucius averted his eyes from the painting hastily; the thought of what Caesar's judgment of Lucius would be were he still alive was too painful to consider, he needed to believe that he was doing Caesar's will.

"Recruit!" Lucius shouted to no one specifically in expectance that there would be at least one in the other room within shouting distance servile enough to heed him.

In testament to Lucius' knowledge of the Legion's slavishness, a Legionary presented himself at the doorway not ten seconds later, prepared to exercise his master's will. His eyes were also immediately drawn to the painting, indicative of its influence over most, if not all, who saw it.

"My lord?" The recruit asked preparedly, still finding himself drawn to the painting.

Lucius stared at the wall, occasionally glancing upward at the painting for just a moment, taking little notice of the Legionary until five or so seconds after his arrival.

"Having such a pretentious piece in Caesar's quarters is disrespectful to his memory; he will always be ingrained in our minds as a great man, one whom we should bleed and fight for, even in his death. But, we must accept the fact that such representations of him are vain, unable to produce results; they'll never bring him back. Have this piece placed downstairs." Lucius said calmly.

The Legionary was confused; was he being tested? Could Caesar's successor truly be so disrespectful to his memory under the guise of being the exact opposite? What sort of posit implied that allowing something created in dedication to Caesar's greatness to be forgotten was the best way to serve him?

"Legionary!" Lucius barked after seeing his orders not immediately obeyed.

"My lord, I-I am not certain…"

Lucius turned around and fixated his gaze on the Legionary, his eyes showing the true extent of his intensity.

"I will never apologize for moving this Legion forward, Legionary; never brook insubordination, and most certainly never allow Caesar to be remembered as a man more occupied with vain depictions of himself than saving this cesspool of a world from itself. Take the painting downstairs, or spit upon my face." Lucius said proudly, his message palpable; the Legionary could defy of Lucius out of spite, or obey him out of respect for Caesar, there was no in between.

After some deliberation, the Legionary hesitantly walked past Lucius and carefully unhooked the painting from the far wall, as if it were a dangerous creature, paying it the reverence that it was due as he carried it from the room.

And then, Lucius was left alone, his delusions all that remained to keep him; in wanting to believe that he was pleasing Caesar by aspiring to obliterate that which he desired more than anything in the world, in failing to see that he would crucify him were he alive since Lucius was acting contrarily to his agenda, and in failing to see that his own actions were guided by nothing more than his desire for personal retribution and malice, he did believe it, and in that, there was comfort. False, but comfort.

_**(BREAK)**_

Vulpes stamped down the hallway toward the eastern end of the Council Building, his eyes conveying a warning through their fierceness that the more distance kept the wiser. And for those not shrewd enough to heed it, he made sure his repeated stroking of his Ripper's handle was relatively obtrusive. Groups of Legionaries that happened to be passing in his direction took care to avoid his part of the hallway, as they were perceptive enough to take notice of both.

Eventually, he reached a nearly unoccupied room that resembled what was likely a lobby of sorts prior to the war, its structuring far too plain to represent anything more significant. Supply crates were littered about the room, many opened and half emptied, likely scavenged for parts for weapons that were more likely to work efficiently. Standing near a map table in the center of the room, Vulpes saw Aurelius assigning tasks to his personal slave, who listened with fearful intentness.

"Out, girl." Vulpes ordered the slave curtly as he strode over to the table. Aurelius raised an eyebrow in response, but otherwise waited to see what the slave's reaction was, possibly as a test of loyalty.

The girl was agape in distress, clearly caught between fear of her cannibalistic master and fear of the legendarily brutal Frumentarii; being between two such negatives could never produce a positive.

Resolving that angering either was impolitic, she sought a compromise by addressing Vulpes, but ultimately submitting to Aurelius.

"M-My lord, Centurion Aurelius ordered-"

The slave girl received a harsh backhand from Vulpes, leaving the start of a contusion on her right cheek. Aurelius donned a look of surprise that one might equate with politely concealed anxiety when a friend is recklessly handling a fragile personal effect, but nonetheless remained indifferent to the girl's overall wellbeing.

"Out." Vulpes reiterated.

The girl responded better this time, and scurried out of the room with fear that Vulpes took pleasure in; it served to remind slaves of where their place was in things.

"That was unnecessary." Aurelius said with only the slightest interest.

"Slaves are like any animal; they must be punished if they refuse to obey their masters. We cannot pretend that they have utility or worth beyond that which they were born with, which we both know isn't much on either count." Vulpes rationalized.

Ignoring Vulpes' icy objectification, Aurelius stated the painfully obvious.

"I'm led to believe something has you discontented."

Like a petulant child who unsubtly hinted that something was bothering him in a play for attention, Vulpes responded with words clearly predetermined.

"Lucius. He disregards the customs of the Legion and Asternet Imperi with deliberateness, and would see Legionaries and slaves that could prove valuable dead; his…actions overall lack intelligence, and I'm sure I don't need to remind you of this nonsense regarding "burning that profligate den of vice to the ground" as I believe he articulated. Being gone does not make Caesar's word irrelevant; Caesar wanted nothing more in the world than to call Vegas his Rome. Now, we both know that, with Gaius and the other centurions supporting him, we don't have a strong enough chance at defeating Lucius on our own, which is why I expect we both conceded to this alliance in the first place. But I ask you, here in privacy, will you stand for this without resistance?"

Despite Vulpes' expecting a more conservative response from the battle hardened centurion, Aurelius simply shrugged and leaned toward the opposite side of what he was anticipated to defend.

"Caesar is, as you've articulated, gone. He was undeniably a great man, but he cannot help us. Perhaps Lucius isn't as great of a leader, but he is nonetheless a leader, we were warring tribes again before he brought us back to a uniform identity."

Almost shocked that he had to explain the wisdom of Caesar to a CENTURION of all Legionaries, Vulpes leaned down on the table and looked Aurelius in the eye, following up with a slightly zealous response.

"But Caesar's teachings AREN'T as empty as Lucius passes them off to be. They ensured stability for over thirty years, something that the Legion needs desperately now. Yet, now Lucius wants to adopt new methods that aren't guaranteed to be viable; I don't believe he'll keep us secure based solely on him being Caesar's..."rightful" successor."

"And yet, for such stability, we had nothing to defend ourselves against the second raining of fire from the heavens. We strived for a perfect society, one based on conservatism and unchanging ideas, but failed to see that survival lies in constant change; it is a fact of nature, one that Caesar was flawed in regards to contending with. Lucius has the capacity to foster the change that we require, I can see it in him. Regardless of your personal feelings toward him, he-"

The blunt response was interrupted with Vulpes quickly unsheathing his Ripper and revving it in Aurelius' direction in an attempt at intimidation.

"Now you suggest Caesar's ways were flawed? You speak of a man profoundly greater than any of us have the capacity to be, Aurelius! A conqueror and of over eighty tribes in barely thirty years, one who went from profligacy to representing something that even the Bear feared! I won't have you make implications about his ability to lead!"

Aurelius was taken aback by the uncharacteristic spate; Vulpes was sly and composed by nature, leaving little room for impulsive actions, and now he was waving a Ripper in his face. Such changes didn't occur overnight. Calling what he perceived to be a brash bluff, Aurelius drew his Machete gladius slowly and eyed its edges as he manipulated its positioning in his hand to his satisfaction.

Unexpectedly, Vulpes leapt across from his side of the table in a show of his agility, using the table as a stepping stone only for a moment, and brought his Ripper down in Aurelius' direction.

Reacting quickly despite the sudden move, Aurelius deftly dodged the miniature chainsaw coming toward his head by strafing to the side, and returned the attack with a right hook to Vulpes' left cheek as he recovered from the failed strike, sending the Ripper sliding across the floor.

Aurelius sought to take advantage of the now disarmed and visibly dazed Frumentarii, but Vulpes was nonetheless still lucid enough to trip Aurelius off his feet, sending him head first into the table and also separating him from his own blade.

As the two fumbled for their weapons, both started comprehending the gravity of the situation; they'd receded, started infighting again, almost as if to foreshadow the only likely fate the Legion held in its future. With fresh nuclear fallout, lack of numbers, and profligates that needed butchering, they were prioritizing squabbling; it was almost pitiful.

Both were eventually able to secure their weapons, and whipped around to face each other. The fast moving Legionaries ended the altercation proper with their weapons just at the tip of the other's throat, ready to tear into flesh.

Vulpes and Aurelius didn't flinch for the other for a second, each one daring the other to make the first move with nothing more than their eyes and other subtle bodily expressions. Aurelius was contending with the petrol fumes licking at his face, while Vulpes felt cold, hard, conventional steel at his throat. It was almost ironic; for wanting to return the Legion to its roots, Vulpes was representing the more progressive side of the Legion's technology at the moment.

The two remained stalemated for a few moments, before Aurelius' rage melted into simple "fed-upness" in the form of a sigh and a disdainful head shake. Correctly seeing that Vulpes wasn't really going to kill him today (wanting to do so didn't annul the ramifications for it), he withdrew his weapon and started slowly walking away, his disorientation clearly still present as represented by his slightly unstable swaying.

"We WILL finish this." Vulpes demanded as he unsteadily maintained his Ripper's threatening revvings in Aurelius' direction, who needed to place his hands on the table for support.

"I won't see us turned into dogs, we've had enough of fighting each other; you'll have to find another way to settle your misgivings, you won't bring this new Legion down with you just because Caesar's moved on." Aurelius said sternly as he stabbed his machete into the table, as if to place it in dedication to the scuffle.

Vulpes' anger wasn't inhibited by the still throbbing pain in his head; Aurelius, Gaius, they'd all betrayed what the Legion was supposed to be by accepting a senselessly violent fool as a leader and enabling his bloodthirstiness. For that, death wasn't undeserved. Regardless, a part of him grudgingly conceded that, just maybe, Aurelius was right in some regards. Whether it was preferable or not, the Legion was evolving, with or without Vulpes; killing the traitors wouldn't stop that. Nonetheless, Vulpes kept the Ripper pointed in Aurelius' direction, almost pathetically, since he had no other tangible options.

"Zeal shouldn't preclude you from seeing the obvious, Vulpes; were Caesar's ways infallible, we wouldn't be in such a situation. I… have duties to perform that can't afford to be delayed." Aurelius said as he wobbled out of the room.

All things considered, Aurelius had taken the attack well, either because he realized the lack of sense in just killing Vulpes (as he did with him), or because he actually did feel some sympathy for his less than progressive position. Aurelius had known Caesar his entire life as well, after all. He remembered those almost hypnotizing blue eyes, that Aquiline nose that was quick to smell out cowardice and defiance; the respect that was ingrained in him for the man and his modi operandi would hardly melt away immediately, the only thing that separated him and Vulpes was that it didn't dictate his actions.

It hardly mattered anymore, anyway; Caesar was dead. Even for a self-proclaimed god, death was death, there was no mitigation. Perhaps it would have been less detrimental had he remained a guiding presence, but nothing he'd ever taught carried with it the capacity to deter incoming nuclear missiles; what was left of the Legion had started to realize that it had not only failed, but been failed.

Caesar's word was no longer held with the same indisputability that it had previously been regarded with. A linchpin of the Legion was, after all, that Caesar was wise enough in his teachings to save the world from itself by eradicating its immorality and uniting its people. Now, he barely held the clout to unite his OWN people, much less profligates who knew no better than thinking that their ways were the best.

As he reached the exit, Aurelius turned around to deliver a final admonishment to Vulpes.

"Picking sides can be a very dangerous thing, Vulpes; I advise choosing prudently, dead men don't make exceptional allies."

How much could holding on to a memory achieve? The resistance of authority that currently guided Vulpes' actions was becoming almost puerile.

However, he was hardly one to yield so easily in seeing such points; even under Caesar he enjoyed the freedom of executing and constructing his own plans, and overall just being unrestricted. Perhaps that was what he truly missed; not Caesar, not stability, but leniency. Under such circumstances, he was an indispensable asset. With that freedom now evaporating though, and having himself backed into a corner like a rabid dog?

_Non serviam._

_**(BREAK)**_

Veronica always hated the idea of prisons; not so much out of some misplaced and quixotic ideals that everyone should be given freedom and liberty regardless of what evils they'd committed, but more so because she felt like she'd lived in one almost her entire life, and regardless of the overall care she had for her fellow "inmates", she put a hold on returning whenever possible.

After all, if an underground bunker that most haven't been outside of in years (and even on the rare opportunity for fresh air only with permission from the overseers) where the notions of your caretakers were forced on you wasn't a prison, how many things could qualify as such? There was also a certain indifference about prisons that bothered her; regardless of the happenings of the outside world, routine never changed in prisons. No notice was ever taken, inhabitants still tended to their affairs, even if the world crumbled around them. Once more, she related that to her Brotherhood roots.

Phillip reserved the Presidential vertibird for Veronica to fly out to the renamed (obviously) NCR Correctional Facility, as if to ease the poignancy of the meeting by affording special accommodations. That was a criticism she had of Phil; living in luxury made him so used to it that he had gotten to the point that he began thinking that others would kill for just a taste. Of course, he may not have been far wrong given the conditions the general population still lived in, but Veronica wasn't one such person to be so easily swayed.

Landing just to the east of the prison, Veronica braced herself; this wasn't about to be a simple day by any stretch of the imagination. After she was done parleying here, she had to get back to Vegas, debrief Phil, see if the terms were copacetic, come back if they weren't for additional parleying, she'd likely have to get out to Big Mountain at one point for her consultation; if the Mojave had any chance of survival, it would be via intellect and ingenuity, soldiers were time buyers. Loyal, predominantly ethical time buyers, but that was it.

It was then that she almost started to MISS being an official part of the Brotherhood despite the strings attached. She was never at a loss for a problem that she could put her mind to in the bunker; something would always need tinkered, hacked, and otherwise fiddled with. Now, she dealt with political bullshit all day; that didn't require cleverness, that required putting on a pretty face and pretending that she liked people more than she really did.

The only person who was really worthy of being considered someone who made an art out of politicking was Phil, really; he was well informed, beyond intelligent, unfairly persuasive, and always had an ace up his sleeve. Such trickery that he was known to employ was maybe less than ethical, but few could deny that he still played the game well; if he didn't, he'd be dead.

The group got to the Visitors center faster than Veronica had expected or wanted, further testifying to her desire to put this trip off.

The prison had changed much, both architecturally and ideologically. Facilities essentially previously used as just slave pens were now hygienic, safe living quarters for offenders (though it would have been illegal in prewar days, wealthier offenders also found themselves slightly more comfortable than others on occasion). It may have been less than an upright practice, but these prisoners were here all expenses paid; the costs of upkeep needed to be offset somehow, prison management wasn't exactly profitable on its own.

The inmates were still a relatively worthwhile investment between their productive, albeit largely decreased labor and the military amnesty policy set in place, and work related deaths were at an all-time low in comparison to the NCR's management techniques. And, naturally, Phil was sensible enough not to give them dynamite, as the prison's previous proprietors had asininely done.

The argument was made that the inmates had made their beds and deserved to labor with anguish accordingly, thus increasing productivity and deterring other would be criminals. But, that said, they were still people, and the NCR had them treated like animals (which, almost as if in karmic retribution, cost them). Labor perhaps was a fair exchange, but not SLAVE labor, not treating the prisoners as expendables, not subjecting them to the scorching climate of the Mojave with erratic water and food supply lines thanks to a concurrent war.

The NCR could hide behind its bureaucracy all day if it wanted, but forcing someone to do extreme physical labor under threat of punishment with return of only the most basic of human necessities was still little more than slavery; ironic since many NCR politicians had been elected based on their anti-slavery crackdown platforms: "Destroy the Legion! Free the slaves! Hey, your enemy's in that direction! Don't you criticize us over these concentra-erm, bad, immoral, evil, corrupt people containment camps!".

It was a slight strain on taxpayer money to provide for food, medicine, etc. for the prison on a regular basis, but in nonalignment with Phil's practical, arguably slightly ruthless ways, he believed it was worth it. Although, on a slightly less idealistic note, military recruitment rates would also drop if there was no food or medicine for prisoners and, by extension, no prisoners.

All that stood out about the visitors center, other than its obvious refurbishment, was the desk placed almost directly in front of the entrance with an NVDF soldier seated behind it, sending an obvious message of authority: "You deal with me before you even breathe a breath in here."

"Please sign the guest logs, ma'am." The soldier said politely as he gently pushed a clipboard forward Veronica.

The expressed idea of authority was proven less than accurate when the soldier, as opposed to the stereotypical physically scarred, wizened, gritty war veteran, was shown to be just a pale kid, probably barely out of his teens, if he even was.

_Oh yeah, that's right, anyone willing to have their head blown off for "survival" is welcome in the almighty NVDF. Wonder if we've tried to recruit cripples or the elderly yet? We clearly already employ adolescents. _Veronica thought cynically.

She was far more pissed off than she gave herself credit for it seemed; that thought was harsher on Phil than he deserved. He needed a well-populated army, Veronica understood that, but at the same time, she couldn't condone essentially bullying people into it. After all, the only steady form of employment was the military; construction, manufacturing, even agricultural jobs would run out eventually, then the military would be one of the only places to turn outside of odd jobs if the education budget didn't see an increase soon. Still, the inner remark about cripples and the elderly was uncalled for since there were still feasible recruitment regulations. There just…weren't a lot of them, as was testified to by the young man in front of her.

"I have clearance. Even if I didn't, you should know who I am." Veronica said as she pushed past the desk and walked out of the room hastily with her escorts in tow.

She felt bad about her dismissiveness just afterward; for being such a champion for the unjustly recruited as she had previously thought herself, she just treated the kid more like an obstacle than a person. Aside from the fact that being a high horsed bitch was uncharacteristic of her, he was just trying to do his job, and he was worthy of respect for staying around in the first place now that most of the military, even the lower echelons, knew of the Tunneler threat; he didn't deserve that just because Veronica was in an unpleasant situation.

She entered the courtyard and, for the first time, witnessed just how expansive the prison system of the Mojave was; for this being the only major prison in the Mojave, it certainly WAS a prison. It didn't show much from the outside, but the prison fences had clearly been taken down and moved farther back at one point to accommodate more cell blocks, more polished and clean looking than the others. Logically so, of course; not only just for wealthy inmates, but other…"special" prisoners, like the one she was headed to see.

Inmates were shuffling about, most of them chained together and escorted by guards in their standard issue Reinforced Combat Armor. Many were headed for or awaiting transfer to a more miniscule prison; since it had been decided that the Correctional Facility was a likely place for the Tunnelers to arrive next, fortifications would soon have to be constructed, and other measures would also have to be implemented, it would be better if so many inmates weren't around to witness and spread rumors about it, even if that meant sacrificing the labor that could have potentially been contributed. With those conditions combined with the less taxing labor in general, the Tunneler threat essentially meant that no work was getting done around here at the moment; not even the guards seemed able to avoid the setting in of apathy and boredom. It was truly a military man's greatest enemy-an enemy could gut you, sickness could ravage you, a fall could cripple you, but complacency might ensure all of the above.

A soldier, the captain of the facility as revealed by the insignia on his helmet, was seated at a picnic table about fifteen meters in, playing caravan with what looked like a lieutenant of his. The sight was out of place for several reasons; for one, picnic tables being placed inside a prison implied that it was a family friendly place. That was a humorous implication: "Come visit the Mojave Correctional Facility! Get shanked, sexually exploited, work in the hot sun, and play caravan!"

Second, he should have actually been DOING something; between the dozens of transfers that were being processed, the defenses that he would eventually have to implement once most of the prisoners were transferred, and the overall fact that there was an army of vicious humanoids capable of tearing apart anything thrown at them with ease heading his way, he was playing cards.

Once more, Veronica mentally slapped herself as punishment for giving in to her darker side, the side that was prone to inflicting the pain of her difficulties on others; what could really be done by one person? Would the secret of the Tunneler threat be kept so, or even mitigated, by scurrying about, raising his voice, and making the lives of his inmates and soldiers miserable? Would the NCR or Legion be intimidated by the same? If there was something that needed to be accepted in regards to situations such as the one the Mojave currently found itself in, it was that, sometimes, you can't do shit; sometimes, you should just play cards.

The captain happened to glance over where Veronica stood, and realized that he had a job to do before scurrying over, his assault rifle swinging from his shoulder carelessly, to present himself.

"Ma'am, Captain Eraldo at your service we've been expecting you." The Captain greeted as he saluted.

Veronica tried to brush the pet peeve off constantly, but her hatred of being called "ma'am" was almost immitigable. She essentially started viewing it less of a title of respect and more one of obligation, people felt that they needed to stand on ceremony for her, whether or not they felt it was ceremony that she was due was irrelevant; they'd call her ma'am either way.

"I've been greeted enough Captain, just take me to his cell, I want to get this over with."

The soldier was clearly caught off guard by the straightforwardness; procedure obviously played a large role in his life, calling everyone "sir" or "ma'am" prevented things from getting complicated.

"Erm, yes ma-Minister Santangelo."

The captain stepped aside and extended his hand toward the more polished looking prison blocks, to convey "after you". The group then made its way toward a block positioned to the right of the administration building.

They entered the well-lit building and started making their way through the straight corridor, past the neatly kept cells on either side of them. A few of the inmates were wearing fine suits, not just those of debauched gamblers, and reading/writing almost furiously, suggesting wealth or even intelligentsia status. A few more than she would have expected were wearing lab coats, and making use of blackboards and scientific equipment that would typically have no place in a prison. Veronica had no prior knowledge of such inmates, and thusly didn't know why they were there. Perhaps it wouldn't be absurd to assume they were there as a result of archetypal mad scientist endeavors, or that in their cases, as opposed to caps, the quid pro quo arrangements made regarding sanitary and comfortable lodging were for research.

It was doubtful that the fruits of their labor could yield anything that "her" inmate couldn't think of first or even ameliorate, though; even Veronica, who was always recognized as skilled technologically and scientifically, didn't approach his level of giftedness.

"I hear you don't get much trouble from him, captain." Veronica said to break the silence that had set in.

The captain started to loosen up a bit once he perceived that the Minister wanted to make small talk, and let a warm, slightly out of place smile slip through.

"Correct. He doesn't even really want to go outside most of the time, he's more content to just sit in his cell; smoking, drinking, popping mentats."

"And you enable that?"

The soldier's smile faded into a more awkwardly stern face, and he tensed up once more.

"Um, the President himself requested that we keep him comfortable, Minister. I… don't believe he has a remarkable life expectancy at this stage."

That was rather curious; it certainly couldn't be said that Phil and the inmate were friends, in fact even saying that they respected each other as foes was generous, but Phil went out of his way to ensure ease was afforded him? Of course, that likely stemmed from Phil not being a vengeful person; once threats to him were neutralized, he didn't feel the need to flog a dead horse. That stated, prior to said neutralization, everything was fair game.

The end of the corridor soon came into sight. It was just one cell, larger than the others and even more refurbished, with a single desk and chair in one of the closer corners and a bed in the other, and with a sink and toilet in the far corners. There appeared to be scribblings all over the walls; someone had given him chalk, which meant he had an outlet for his intellect. Possibly not the most sensible of options; he may have been an old man, but his mind was as just as dangerous as any Fat Man or Tesla Cannon. He wasn't visible immediately; however, a skylight on the opposite end of the block, letting the slightest amount of light in, revealed the outline of a robed figure sitting against the far wall-most clearly, a stretched out leg and an arm occupied with a pencil and journal, but otherwise still mostly obscure.

"I can take it from here." Veronica said quietly and doubtfully to her escorts.

Each glanced at each other unsurely.

"Minister, are you-"

"He's an old man, I'm…fine."

Calling him "an old man" undersold his impact on Veronica, and on her brothers. The captain nodded and left, with her escorts also retreating to the block entrance.

With that, she made the final steps toward the cell; one step, two steps, three steps, each one felt like an eternity. Until, finally, she was but a few feet from the bars; despite such proximity, he still didn't seem to notice he had a guest.

She stomped her foot once, as meekly as possible; of course, he still wasn't aware of her, whether due to hypnosis with his work or old ears. Clearing her throat loudly came next, and still, no notice was taken.

At that, she realized she had no choice; for his attention, she had to acknowledge his existence, that he had been closer to her than just another government asset-she called his name.

He noticed that; he looked up, the light hitting his wrinkled face. It outlined his pale blue eyes rather clearly; they communicated undoubted surprise, but also a coldness.

"Veronica! Is that you, or has my vision worsened overnight? My my my, this is a pleasant surprise, really; come for a few more lessons about the flawed principles of the Brotherhood and their unlikely long term survival, or are you here to give your old dad a pep talk?" The wizened figure called out more caustically than Veronica previously believed was possible for him; prison had obviously changed him.

Veronica took a large gulp, keeping her mouth closed as she did so in the hopes that he wouldn't note the vulnerability. She spoke, wiping the sweat from her brow that she would blame on the heat if pressed about it.

"You're not my father; the man who existed before Operation Sunburst and Paladin Remus Santangelo are two of the only people who are remotely worth filling that title. You're just someone who's proven, for all his progressiveness and so called desire to help people, that everyone around you is expendable. And I didn't come here to be amiable...Elijah."

Elijah; the former Brotherhood of Steel Scribe, and later Elder, responsible for the state of disorganization that nearly destroyed the order. Brilliant, unstable, ruthless, obsessed, traitorous. A man for whom the ends would always justify the means; not so different from a few other key players in the game, really. He may have been many things, but easily coerced wasn't one of them; with the playing field set, the game of wits about to be played would testify to that obstinacy.

"Veronica, you wound me so; I'm surprised, really. I recall you sympathizing with all that progressiveness that you so mordantly mock now, yet here you are trying to make me believe that I'm the bad guy. If you want the real bad guys, look to the west and east. Better yet, look at that cesspool to the north that you associate yourself with now. Are they all really doing anything better or worse than what I've done? When's the Union going to fix the lives of the real people in the Mojave, and not just those precious tourists that keep it running? How many people are in the ground because of some politicians in Shady Sands and warlords in Flagstaff who deemed it all necessary at the time? " Elijah said cynically.

Against her better judgment, Veronica humored him with a response; thankfully, her confidence in her answers seemed to diminish the amount of sweat she was excreting.

"Change takes time, you can't rush it, and you can't just stampede those who don't see eye to eye with you, which is exactly what you wanted to do. We destroy our enemies when we make allies of them or compromise, not when we hurt people over some misguided sense of the "greater good"." Veronica said idealistically.

Elijah chuckled, and pulled a case of mentats from within his robe.

"Says the girl who works for someone who waged a second nuclear war to secure his power? We call that hypocrisy, my dear."

Elijah had hit a soft spot; for all the Union did that was right, it had to do some things that were VERY wrong in order to get there, would any justification made be anything more than a rationalization of cruelty?

"Listen, I think you know that none of us are proud about that; we don't spend our days scheming up how we can wreak further devastation across the wasteland, it's something we live with day to day, knowing that not everyone in Arizona was an evil person. Maybe it was wrong at the time, maybe it still is, maybe we'd do it differently if we had another chance; the maybes in this world are innumerable. But we've saved lives since then because we haven't had to worry about Legion counterattacks that we can say with relative certainty would have come otherwise; how many people have you saved in between leaving your brothers to their fate and blowing peoples' heads up?"

Elijah scoffed at the suggestion that his "ends justify the means" philosophy was somehow less justified than the Union's simply because he hadn't gotten into a position to save lives just yet, and struck back after popping a mentat.

"Even now, with all that pragmatism that you want to try and exert, you're still just that little naive girl with pigtails who wanted to change the world, but didn't want to do anything "mean" to accomplish that goal. You really think the future is secured with people looking out for their own interests on all sides of us? West, north, east, even our…your… brothers; all isolationistic, all self-centered. When you leave things to cultivate on their own, all you get is rot and decay, until that one variable comes along to change things, to cleanse the world to pave the way for a better future, even when that means stepping on toes." Elijah said grandiosely, clearly in the belief that he was the variable in question.

Veronica tired of their hypothetical philosophy discussion, and administered a dose of the reality and practicality that Elijah seemed so concerned with.

"You want to talk about the future? How about a spooky story detailing what's going to be compromising that future soon?"

Elijah seemed only slightly concerned with the new threat as Veronica explained, possibly because he'd faced so many in his past, and only a handful had changed anything, or even been worth noting. Above all, Elijah was a survivor; if obsession had driven him to insanity, none could deny that his capacity for self-preservation that all humans inherently possess had remained, possibly even been enhanced. Such will to survive was something needed at the moment, even if his other redeeming qualities were hardly myriad.

"Well, seems your friend has gotten himself into quite the pickle." Elijah said unconcernedly, as if the previously mentioned "pickle" didn't have the potential to cause enough harm to warrant interest.

"Are you going to help us or not? I assumed you'd want to be out of here, they're likely to come here next, we're already making as many prisoner transfers as we can. I figured being free would be a better deal than being dead."

Elijah looked at Veronica with confusion, and with a bit of surprise mixed in.

"Freedom? That's your offer? And where do I go from there? Is the Brotherhood going to welcome me back with open arms? Accept the fact that I did what I felt I had to do? Or will I have the dubious privilege of some sort of cabinet position courtesy of our mutual friend?"

He pointed upwards toward the equations and other writings all over the wall, and shook his journal about.

""Freedom" won't get all of this done, Veronica. I'm an old man; freedom for freedom's sake doesn't mean much anymore, don't suggest that it does. I have plaque in my arteries and arthritis in my bones, I could die tomorrow and no one would be particularly stunned. When you get to my stage in life, you'll find that the only thing that really matters anymore is posterity, your legacy; I had a chance to make mine something worth noting, and it was swept out from under me. Veronica, I think you know what I want, don't you?"

Veronica looked at him with knowing, and disappointment that his priorities had shifted so little during his incarceration; he would always be dead set on the goal that he clearly implied, until he himself was dead. He hadn't changed that much, after all.

"The Sierra Madre." Veronica said grimly; she'd heard the stories, and she certainly wasn't under the false impression that it was a fantasy land capable of reshaping the world.

"Holograms, the Cloud, Auto-Docs, those vending machines, they're absolutely revolutionary; even before the war they would have baffled most people, imagine the utility we can achieve with them now!" Elijah said eagerly; he seemed a bit too excited for someone who didn't even have a deal yet.

"It's a graveyard, Elijah; Sinclair and Vera, those people you used, the ghost people, the prewar guests, that place represents misery beyond anything most of us have ever had to contend with. Using such a thing as an expedient while also knowing its history just proves that humanity hasn't changed enough, that things like that can and will happen again."

Elijah brushed off her idealism.

"Its macabre history doesn't change the fact that, above all else, it's a treasure trove; allowing ourselves to be restricted by principles would be exceptionally foolish, the Madre represents one of the most significant forces remaining in this wasteland, I believe allowing it to remain idle is a waste."

"And what makes you think it's even Phil's to give? Last I checked, there were a few undead creatures who I'm led to believe take issue with people being there."

"Why do you think I'm asking, Veronica? I have no doubt he hasn't lifted a finger to secure that place, whether out of fear of spreading himself too thin or misplaced ideals given its morbid origins. So, I want troops, resources, whatever I need to take the Sierra Madre from its current occupants once all of this is over, then I use it as I see fit, and you'll never have to see or hear from me again."

"You wouldn't use the Sierra Madre for vengeance? Forgive me, but I have a hard time believing that."

"I told you before Veronica, I'm an old man; things start to seem less important at my age, posterity above all else is vital right now, vindictiveness is a petty human emotion that I don't have the luxury of obsessing over. All I want is a chance to foster a fresh start; I'll move across the damn country if I have to since you romantics apparently don't want me to do that here."

"You used Phil, threatened him, and essentially directly stated that you wanted to use the Sierra Madre against the NCR and anyone else who opposed you; he won't forget that any time soon, especially when you're asking him to turn over technology like one man army holograms."

Elijah appeared to miss the finer points of negotiation, and maintained his terms without yielding a single aspect.

"If I don't get the Madre in its entirety, then we don't have a deal."

Veronica sighed at his stubbornness; she knew his strong willpower wouldn't make asking for his aid a simple thing, but his obstinacy was almost becoming senselessness. The old Elijah knew when he wasn't holding a winning hand; perhaps he HAD changed after all, this alternation between characteristics of his old and new personas was tiresome. Eventually, she came to what she believed an appropriate compromise that would soothe both.

"You wanted those vending machines the most, right? You wanted to use food, medicine, and water to make people flock to the Brotherhood like sheep; I think I can convince him to let you have that and the Auto-Docs, but not the Cloud, and definitely not those holograms."

Though Elijah still clearly would have had it otherwise, he came to the realization that his bargaining chips weren't exactly myriad; the plan would go forward with or without him, it was just a matter of convenience. Part of him conceded that, though he had no desire to preserve an enemy nation in and of itself, it was all a means to an end. But, another part of him also wanted to go against his previously proclaimed denouncement of the concept of revenge; which part would he observe?

"I'll think about it." Elijah said with a slight sense of mystery which would have evaporated had he revealed that he actually realized it was a no-brainer decision.

"Think fast, the Tunnelers aren't exactly exemplary in regards to patience."

As Veronica spun around to exit the block, her hood almost falling off due to the speed with which she rotated, she heard Elijah force a cough, clearly indicating that they weren't done yet.

"Did you… ever find her?" Elijah said with just the slightest amount of empathy in his voice.

Veronica turned back around, surprised that there was something that Elijah could have been concerned about that didn't regard him.

"Find who?"

"You know who, I was told she got out of the Sierra Madre safely. Did you ever find her?"

That made it more obvious. She still remembered her vividly; the long black ponytail, the athletic build, she even smelled nice. All that considered, it was only mildly physical; Veronica had known relationships predicated mostly on physicality, but hers and Christine's wasn't one of them. There was genuinely something there; perhaps it was the taboo-ness of it all, the knowledge that their environment and upbringing both dictated that they had no business being together, but both were passionate enough to not care. Regardless, it was something that should have been; thanks to Elijah, now it wasn't.

"No, and thanks to you, chances are I never will."

"You still think I split you two out of spite, you could never see that I'm not driven by malice; everything I do has a reason. Your infatuation with her was unrealistic, it would have brought no heirs to carry the torch of the Brotherhood into the future; a genetic dead end. What was the point?"

Veronica shook her head in disappointment.

"It's called love, Elijah, sometimes I wonder if it's something you've ever felt."

With that, she finally left, exiting the block as if a bomb were about to go off; and with that, the tears of admittance were also finally permitted to roll down her face.

**(BREAK)**

"He wants the Sierra Madre; I think he's willing to compromise on what he gets out of it though." Veronica said to Phil once she was back in the Penthouse.

Phil looked up from the newspaper his nose was buried in; nothing he was reading could have been quite as interesting as the notion of entertaining such a patently ludicrous request.

"I figured he wouldn't just be content with freedom, but Veronica, really? The Sierra Madre? The one thing that might threaten our entire existence? It never occurred to you that that might be slightly logically fallacious? And you said I'd say yes, didn't you?"

Veronica really neither wanted nor needed to be grilled anymore today, particularly not from Phil; did fate inherently need to make things more difficult for her when possible?

"Well, I knew you weren't going to give him an army or a biological weapon, so I compromised; he gets the Auto-Docs, the vending machines, and his freedom, we get his help, or…well, he'll think about it at least. If we can somehow stop those machines from making guns too, he's virtually no threat, why worry?"

Phil sighed at the absurdity of the implication that anything could really be done to mitigate Elijah's threat level other than keeping him under lock and key.

""Virtually no threat", yeah, that's right, one of the few people in this wasteland with complete technological mastery and a sociopathic Messiah complex to boot couldn't possibly think of anything that might come back to bite us in the ass, later. God, do you ever actually think when you're doing your damn job, or do you just constantly let your emotions compromise you?"

Veronica widened her eyes, clearly showing that she was hurt. Phil had had rare outbursts of anger during moments of stress no doubt, but he'd never actually insulted his friends.

Phil sighed and rubbed his temple slowly, seeing that he owed her an explanation; she didn't deserve that.

"The Tunneler tissue samples that we sent to Big Mountain, poor results. I thought maybe we could synthesize a toxin, but our genetic code is too similar; we'd be gassing ourselves as well." Phil said, with a palpably draining sense of hope.

Veronica felt flat out selfish after that; she just had to deal with someone evil whom she once loved, Phil was the one who had to contend with the fact that his entire nation was at risk and for once he had no idea what to do.

Phil moved around from his side of the desk toward his friend.

"Listen, don't worry about me, I was just being irritable. It's not your fault, are YOU okay?"

Veronica shrugged, and started choking up more than she'd intended.

"I didn't think being around him would make me so uncertain about things. God, there are…still so many parts of me that want to believe he's not a bad person, that he still loves me like a daughter, but when I think about what he did…"

Phillip then tenderly took his old friend's head in his hands and planted a kiss on her forehead. Not an intimate kiss, but a kiss that one might give a baby sister. He then tilted her head back up so that their eyes met each other, a surprising amount of sincerity in his.

"We're going to get out of this, we all didn't come this far to let Tunnelers, Elijah, or anyone else stop us; I promise."

Veronica smiled slightly, with Phil reciprocating.

"Thanks, Veronica, really; that couldn't have been easy. We're done for the day, I think." Phil said as he started to move back to his desk.

Yet, regardless of the forced smile, there was something inside of her that wasn't just satisfied with the cinematically schmaltzy "we'll get through this"; the ever accumulating sliver that listened to what Elijah was saying.

"Do we actually deserve the survival that we strive for, Phil?" Veronica called out as he returned to his desk.

Phil stopped dead in his tracks; that bothered him, it was clear.

"What?" He said as he turned back around.

"We scurry about, contending with new threats every day, but we never actually stopped to ask if we deserve to survive. You started all of this on an impulse, an opportunity; you've admitted as much. Are we really any better than the Legion, Elijah, or the NCR? We've done bad things, too; we're not even close to immaculateness. The Union, does it really deserve to survive?"

It was actually a fair question, but hearing it from the mouth of one of his closest friends? That was different, disturbing.

"Listen, Veronica, nothing and no one just receives the right to exist arbitrarily; we earn the right ourselves, or we don't, through the things we do, both good and bad. And at the end of the day, whoever's still standing is the one who's earned it. THAT'S what separates us from them, we've survived, we've prospered. In the…words of a wise man, "We don't have to dream that we're important.""

She recognized that quote, and she regretted never having met its speaker.

"Mr. House?" She said.

"Yeah, Mr. House." He responded maudlinly, perhaps out of a sense of intellectual camaraderie for the deceased genius. He looked around at the Penthouse, as if he'd just purchased the deed.

"The first time I came up to this place, I didn't see a ruthless capitalist, a robot wielding autocrat, I saw resolute brilliance, not gratuitous cruelty. Pragmatism, not savagery. He wasn't evil; if he were, I wouldn't have felt anything for getting rid of him. Instead, I did-there were times when I wondered whether or not I should have chosen this path." Phil said as he slowly sat back down.

"Then why do you do all of this?" Veronica asked.

Phil started placing his feet on the table, with a slight indication of self-importance in it.

"Because someone has to, and people count on me; nuking a nation of people who weren't all evil, sending another into a recession, you think I like doing those things? I do them because other people would just pass the buck. If there were ways to get around them, don't you think I'd take them?"

"But you COULD'VE done other things, there were other options, and you DIDN'T take them. What makes us different from Elijah in that regard? He thinks the ends justify the means, too."

Phil's eyes filled with anger, not necessarily unjustifiably; no normal person took pleasure in being compared to a sociopath.

"Because the world would be so much better off if we just placed him in charge, right? Slave collars that'll blow your head off if you don't cooperate? Psychological manipulation? Biological warfare? All of that would make things better?" Phil said audibly, clearly tiring of being challenged.

"No, I don't think all of those would make things better; I do, however, think constant intimidation with an army of robots, nuclear warfare, and wielding autocratic and totalitarian authority would though!" Veronica yelled caustically since those were all arguably cornerstones of the Union's existence; and she wasn't even through yet.

"That's where all of those book and street smart that you possess have gotten us, Phil; we aren't in power because people admire that you're just so goddamn smart and excellent, we stay in power because we're feared."

Silence came next; a long silence. The point of awkwardness where neither knew what to say to counter the other, anymore. Two years ago, Phil wouldn't have even entertained this instance as a possibility; that one of his closest friends would think so little of him that she would compare him to a lunatic. He wasn't like Elijah-he couldn't have been…he couldn't have.

To break the stalemate, Phil picked the newspaper back up from under his feet, and buried his nose in it once more, not wanting to look Veronica in the eyes at the moment.

"…Thank you, Veronica, please leave." Phil said emptily.

Veronica was left agape, having expected a more encouraging justification, and truly terrified at the prospect that maybe Elijah was right; there was no difference between the Union and him, just that he'd lost.

She left the Penthouse feeling dissatisfied, still questioning whether or not Phil's rationalizations were morally correct. It wasn't out of malice that she questioned his leadership, though; she sincerely hoped she would soon be more satisfied by Phil's answers than Elijah's questions, she really, REALLY did.

_**(BREAK)**_

Shady Sands was a generally poor place for an economist to work; aside from the recession that the majority of the country blamed on the lack of foresight on behalf of such people, capital city bureaucracy also put chains and restrictions on them whenever possible, and political infighting was something they found themselves caught between often; it was never black and white, it was never just "This is what will help our economy and this is what will cripple it", there needed to be brouhaha over it, otherwise it wouldn't be politics. Monroe, in particular, had enough of it all to last him a lifetime; he was primarily responsible for dumbing down complex economic theories for less than knowledgeable Congressmen, and his salary was always on the table were his predictions not to pan out exactly as expressed, as if economics was a predictable science.

And, as if contending with financial threats wasn't bad enough, he often worked weekends; since Congressmen were just FAR TOO IMPORTANT and INSTRUMENTAL in saving the country, they CLEARLY couldn't wait until Monday to be briefed on issues.

As he was wrapping up loose ends in his deliberately shoddily made office, he realized that he had left some papers of his that he'd used in a presentation in the Congress Assembly Hall. He considered just leaving them for the janitors to dispose of, but realized that he would likely receive a "Wait, I still don't get it" from at least one Congressman on Monday and would need his papers to simplify even further.

Sighing and realizing just how little he liked his job, he exited his office with his briefcase and started toward Congress' meeting place just down the hall.

As he entered the Assembly Hall, he unexpectedly saw Senator Aaron Kimball seated in the chair closest to the far wall, his left arm draped over the back and his right leg crossed over the other as he mulled overs some papers.

"Oh! I'm…sorry, sir, I wasn't aware there was a meeting set for today. Isn't Sunday usually a congressional break day?" Monroe said with surprise as he remained by the door nervously.

Kimball looked up from the papers that he was reading slowly and smiled formally as he pulled a case and lighter from his coat and placed one of the cylindrical sticks on the tip of his mouth.

"Spur of the moment foreign policy business, you see, Minister Gannon should arrive soon. Most of my fellow congressmen are away on business elsewhere, most likely something involving their constituents, and I'm told the Secretary of State was called to a meeting with the President regarding immigration policy, and since I chair the Committee on Foreign Relations, I was asked to fill in. May I ask why you're here?"

"Oh, I think I left some papers in here following a presentation I gave regarding the effect of high taxes on free enterprise."

Monroe looked around the room, nothing in his eyes suggesting that he had a particular liking or personal respect for Kimball; no one did. What was certain, however, was that he was due the reverence one might give a wild animal; Kimball wasn't a man to be crossed. He was always thinking, always had ideas; some of them were even pretty good, but most of them didn't well serve the needs of the rank and file.

"So it's…just you here then, sir? I don't want to sound impudent, but it seems rather strange that you're the only one here to administrate such a touchy department right now. And, correct me if I'm wrong, but since this isn't OFFICIALLY your area of business, it could possibly be misinterpreted that you're conducting this meeting illegally and without any executive or legislative approval, right?"

Kimball looked unsure for just a moment, before adopting a disappointed demeanor and crushing his cigarette in a nearby ashtray in a show of his seriousness.

"Whether it's official or not, so long as that two headed bear flag is still hanging proudly outside this building, I assure you politics is and will always be my business, and perpetuating the notion that anything happening here today is happening illegally fosters further division of our country, and isn't something I'd expect of a patriot; you're with us, or you're with the Union, I advise you to remember that." Kimball said sternly.

The would-be conspiracy theorist was successfully deterred by Kimball's subtle intimidation, and yielded passively.

"Oh, no I-I didn't mean it like that, Mr. Senator, I was just saying, it seemed…odd." Monroe said with disingenuous loyalty that was more just fear.

"Odd indeed, one can never accurately predict a likely course of action with all these bureaucrats under one roof, it gets rather confusing. Those are you papers, I believe." Kimball said as he nodded to a stack of documents a little further down the table.

"Ah, yes, yes they are. Thank you, Senator. I, uh, wish you luck." The economist said sheepishly.

Kimball nodded and smiled politely as the economist retrieved his papers and exited the Assembly Hall without another word.

_People with their fucking questions, how often does being nosy actually end well? _Kimball thought.

Regardless, it was still a good day thus far. He had the good fortune of being able to conduct the meeting almost exclusively since the Secretary of State was one of his closest political allies and was a fellow conspirator in what was essentially his pro war movement, though both the meeting and the Secretary's affiliations were kept discreet since the President would disapprove of having such machinations in his cabinet. Senator Brooks was also instrumental in assuring that Kimball would conveniently be one of the only unoccupied congressmen today, thus ensuring that no controversy would ensue since very few would even know there was anything worth calling controversial occurring.

If all went well, Kimball would be able to employ an efficacious mixture of intimidation and charm against the inexperienced Gannon; undoubtedly he had clout with Masterson, which meant he might be able to sway him toward NCR interests. The extent may have been negligible given Masterson's strong will and knowledge of what he was doing most hours of the day, but it was better than nothing. Either way, the Republic's interests would be served today; either answers would be given and the lockdown lifted for those with vested interests to continue their business, or…well, the alternative.

**(BREAK)**

A few miles away, a Vertibird approached the capital, with a reluctant Minister aboard; trips to the Republic were never exactly fun days. And yet, for some ungodly reason, he was made Minister of Foreign Affairs; Cass may have been too sassy, Boone too taciturn, Veronica too begrudging of the NCR, and Raul and Lily not pretty enough, but Arcade ventured on flat out social basket case-Phil couldn't have just hired someone outside the little posse to do this job? A charming vagrant? A gregarious slum dweller? Anyone who wasn't named Arcade Gannon?

"I trust you", Phil said, "It'll all work out", he said. For whatever reason diplomatic relations hadn't reached a boiling point between the NCR and the Union just yet, but they were also never particularly amiable, certainly never fraught with comity, and it was hard for him to believe that that wasn't often a result of his social ineptitude.

The Vertibird touched down just outside of the Hall of Congress, narrowly avoiding the statue in front with its tail rotor. The pilot called something back regarding the bumpy landing; Arcade didn't hear, he found himself too drawn to the monument as he started making his way toward the exit hatch. The statue was that of a man, stepping forward, perhaps representative of some dream for an auspicious future. From what he understood it was in dedication to some vault dweller who'd saved Shady Sands, rid it of raiders, saved Tandi, saved Aradesh, saved Radscorpions, something like that.

If nothing else it represented the impact one person can potentially have on history's course; the Republic might not have ended up an organized nation without this guy, whoever he was. The Southwest might have debatably been better off had the Boneyard, Shady Sands, the Hub, and all the other NCR districts just remained independent but interconnected towns since gargantuan expansion had often been a detriment to the NCR and anyone in their way was fair game, but the country had done at least some good to justify its existence…in its early stages, at least.

The representation also provoked thoughts, though-was Arcade where he needed to be? Was he making a difference? Was his destiny honestly bureaucracy? Would he have been better off, would he have done more good, had he just stayed in his tent that day at the Old Mormon Fort? It was often on his mind, more often than it would likely be on that of a man sure of his place in things.

He entered the Hall of Congress, making ample pace through the NCR's seat of politics. It was notably empty today, even for the typical lack of publicization that accompanied foreign policy meetings between the two nations. In the old world, such visits were often very well covered; photos of shaking hands that would be around the world within the hour, forced smiles, a representation that they weren't ready to kill each other just yet. In post apocalyptia, however, they represented submission, and embarrassment; it was better when they were subtly conducted. Not excellent foreign policy on the Union's part, but it kept the NCR predictable, and eliminated any delusions of grandeur.

Past the empty checkpoints, Arcade came to a secretary's desk, placed straight in the middle of the hallway, almost laughably so since either side of it was still unobstructed.

"Minister Gannon. I've been told to request that you check in whatever weapons you're carrying. For security reasons, I'm sure you understand. And you'll need to sign the guest logs, submit official identification, the standard procedures." Said the secretary.

Arcade sensed his snarkiness rising inside him like a geyser. "Say something facetious!" it dictated, "Get something out of this trip!"; how could he help but give in?

"Oh, of course I understand. But, do YOU understand how many times I've been caught off guard during the course of my merry adventures? I'm barely outside of Vegas anymore and it still happens, there's always something. I mean, if a deathclaw-no, make that TWO deathclaws just burst into the Assembly Hall and massacred everyone in the meeting, I'll bet you'd feel rather silly for parting me from my weapon, wouldn't you? And of course, to add to my already compelling argument, my status as a diplomat grants me immunity from many rules, such as not being able to carry a weapon, and double parking my Brahmin. So, is it still really THAT important to you that you take my gun?"

The secretary wasn't used to such causticness; how did a man like this become a politician?

"Uh, I'm just following procedures, sir."

Arcade responded with a snort.

"Yeah, procedures. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go contend with more bureaucracy." Arcade said as he vamoosed around the right side of the desk. The secretary watched them leave out of the corner of his eye; after the group was through the last checkpoint and out of auditory range, an NCR officer emerged from an office to the right of the secretary carrying a medium sized pouch, and proceeded to make his way toward the desk where he plopped the bag down carelessly.

"Do you love your country?" Colonel Royez asked.

The secretary cleared his throat, and itched at his eyebrow; he'd never been involved in such intrigue, it showed.

"Uh, yes, yes, I do, very much so." The secretary said innocently as he grabbed the bag greedily and borderline sprinted toward the exit.

Love of one's country was, of course, always made much easier with the promise of coin.

**(BREAK)**

Despite the disdain that had started to pervade his thoughts in regards to the politicking of the NCR, Arcade still felt pangs of nostalgia as he walked throughout the halls of NCR's governmental headquarters. There was a time when the NCR and the Followers weren't at each other's throats, and when their agendas were not so disparate; though moderate oppression through taxation and other regulations imposed on citizens weren't terribly uncommon, the Followers could typically see that the NCR was a misguided country trying to do positive things, and they could usually always meet at that intersection. Indeed, there was a time.

The Assembly Hall was just ahead, ready to swallow him whole once more just like it always did. Regardless, Secretary of State O'Brien rarely gave Arcade a hard time-that said, he usually did that just for the sake of pooling his resources and choosing battles that he knew he could win.

However, as Arcade's escorts pushed the Hall doors open for him, he didn't see the face of Secretary O'Brien; he saw first an NCR officer seated with her leg crossed in the corner, and next, directly in front of him, as his escorts removed themselves from their obstructing positions, he observed a smoking Aaron Kimball, former President of the NCR, seated across the table.

Kimball stood up from his chair and extended his free arm across the table to greet Arcade as he entered cautiously.

"Minister Gannon; a pleasure, thank you for coming. We've never had the privilege, I believe-I'm Senator Kimb-"

Arcade didn't give him the pleasure of introducing himself, denying the handshake and dispelling any notion that he wanted to bother being friendly. And why should he have been? This guy was the poster boy for every warmongering profiteering expansionist that was wrong with the Republic; in favor of his hawkish agenda he constantly undermined the Followers' work, including the argument that they could use tax credits or subsidies to help continue their humanitarian efforts by denouncing them as anarchistic revolutionaries.

"I know who you are, Kimball. Where is the Secretary of State? This isn't your business." Arcade said directly.

Kimball retracted his arm, actually appearing slightly hurt. He couldn't really have been so naïve that he didn't know why Arcade disliked him-he still wore his Followers Coat, for god's sake.

"I'll be filling in today; fate seems to have conspired to result in most of my colleagues being occupied. Rest assured, I'll perform my duties just as proficiently as the Secretary would." Kimball stated professionally.

Arcade froze in his tracks. Something was off; no other Congressmen, particularly the less warmongering ones? No aides? Arcade scanned the room meticulously, hardly even breathing. Kimball noticed and chuckled slightly, as Arcade turned back to him.

"You shouldn't be so quick to expect political schemes, Mr. Gannon; you're in a public building, what sort of deceit are you expecting, chairs that descend into the dungeons?" Kimball said jokingly.

That was hardly a good point though, and the humor did little to improve it; it was Aaron Kimball, he'd find a way to deceive and scheme if it served him. Regardless, this had to be done-if Arcade backed off now, diplomacy would be as good as six feet under, he'd fail the Union. He approached the table in silence, his guards flanking him closely, as if they'd taken Kimball's joke seriously. Kimball sat back down as well, tapping his cigarette a few times into his ashtray.

"Now, Mr. Gannon, I'm sure you understand where we're coming from when we say that we are becoming rather frustrated with your country's constant denial of knowledge regarding our missing people; while I don't intend to suggest foul play on your part necessarily, what I do intend to suggest is that I believe you, as a sovereign nation, know what's going on within your own borders just as much as we do within ours. Please, anything that can help clear this up would be greatly appreciated by the people of the Republic; as a friend, is there anything you'd like to share?"

Kimball sought to seduce Arcade with charm, and adding "as a friend" to the end just like all the actors in the old movies did before they did something unfriendly. Arcade, however, was a person who just didn't have enough conviviality to be so easily swayed.

"And I'm sure you understand where we're coming from when we say that we DON'T KNOW; it doesn't get much simpler than that, Senator. We know nothing of their travel patterns; they…could just be slow walkers for all we know."

Kimball nodded in mock politeness since he clearly didn't believe him. Not that he could be blamed; Arcade wouldn't have believed it if someone was peddling such an explanation.

"Yes, of course, but I'm sure you can see how we view it as rather coincidental that dozens of our citizens just happen to disappear the same week that you shut down a major highway."

"That's been explained; the Legion is launching an ill-fated counterattack. They're based somewhere up in the mountains, and they're being dealt with."

All going to plan so far, Arcade just had to-

Arcade's thought process was interrupted by obnoxious behaviors from Kimball; he'd pursed his lips, and started tapping the table with his nails before raising his right index finger eagerly, as if he had come to a panacea that would remedy all the wrongs in the world.

"Perhaps we need to reconsider our stance on this issue since you claim that the Legion has gone on the offensive once more. Perhaps the Legion is behind these disappearances; perhaps the severely crippled army of a deceased warlord that has no consistent or secure access to munitions or other supplies is capable of raising such havoc that two dozen of our people have simply vanished into thin air; doubtful, perhaps, but willpower is undoubtedly a strong weapon, and I have no doubt they possess it. While this is certainly your nation's fault since you have an obligation to protect tourists, I think this would dispel at least some of the resentment arising from the implications that you were directly involved in the disappearances, even if it turned out that you were deliberately hiding the truth out of fear of reprisal." Kimball said smugly.

Arcade froze in his seat, breathing only as minimally as possible, as if he were faced with a predator of poor vision. Kimball already knew where he was headed; if he knew before Arcade had even started passing the fabrication off, there was little to no hope of it working.

"Mr. Gannon, do you think that our civilians were killed by Legionaries?"

Arcade was caught; the jig was up, how could he look Kimball in the eye and simply reiterate everything that he had just implied was the real story? Or, more so, simply say "Yeah, that"? It was like he knew the story that Arcade had planned to pass off before he did. Out of options, Arcade remained silent, staring at his boots, as Kimball confirmed to himself that things were not as they were made to appear to be.

"I didn't think so." Kimball said coldly.

Kimball shrugged, letting at least some disappointment shine through; whether or not it was real was difficult to analyze.

"For what it's worth, I wish this had gone better."

Kimball nodded to the officer in the corner of the room, who whistled to the door, clearly to compatriots positioned outside.

A squad of four NCR heavy troopers carrying LMGs immediately burst into the room, slammed the door shut, and drew their weapons, catching Arcade's escorts off guard. One fumbled for his assault carbine, while the more wary one pulled his 10mm submachine gun quickly.

Once the initial shock that a Senator of the NCR had just perpetrated a DIRECT act of war as opposed to some indirect subterfuge had passed, Arcade jumped up, as if doing so fast enough would intimidate them into fleeing. Arcade considered going for his Plasma Defender, but saw the futility of it quickly; there were too many, and the door was currently being barred shut by the officer with a coatrack positioned near it. He wasn't getting out just by pulling a handgun, he'd just get himself killed quicker.

"Drop 'em! Do it now!" The officer screamed as she pulled her weapon.

"Kimball, what the hell is this?!" Arcade yelled over her and his escorts.

There was another moment or so of cacophonous yelling, with Colonel Moore's being the most prevalent, until it happened; the standoff was ended with a flurry of 5.56 shells lodging into the assault carbine wielding soldier, strategically placed so as to avoid hitting Arcade. They must have been armor piercing rounds; they tore through the armor and into his flesh. He went down like a boulder, shaking the entire foundation, almost.

The other soldier could have retaliated; used what were likely his last moments to achieve revenge on the lightly armored officer, or even Kimball. Instead, he tackled Arcade to the ground protectively. Arcade felt like he'd broken a bone as the combat armored troop fell on top of him after bullets were lodged in him, as well; he was clearly gone.

"Careful, you morons! You could have killed him." Kimball yelled.

Colonel Moore was no longer yelling; she was quiet now, aiming her pistol halfheartedly, before hardening herself once more.

"Kimball, you son of a bitch! What-" Arcade screamed as he tried to get up, only to be secured and disarmed rapidly by Moore.

Kimball, remaining seated, was calmly lighting up another cigarette, likely to convey that he wasn't scared of what he thought "had to be done."

"You have my sincere sympathies for being placed in this situation, Minister Gannon, I'm sure what happened isn't something with which you had direct involvement. But, WE didn't start this; regardless, we'll end it anyway we can. In that way, I'm afraid you're expendable. Colonel Moore...do what you need to do, please."

Moore hesitated for a moment; for her well known ruthlessness, she was dealing with something outside the field of battle-not a Brotherhood technophile or a Legion savage, a timid doctor turned politician. Something needed to be done for the sake of the Republic, but like this? This was the right way?

Kimball picked up on the hesitance, and responded.

"For the NCR, Colonel." He said quietly.

Moore, after consideration, nodded rapidly, and grabbed Arcade harshly by the coat, pressing her 9mm pistol to his ribs, before forcing him into the top right corner of the room. She nodded to one of the heavy troopers who'd positioned himself, oddly enough, on top of the table. He started fiddling with several of the candleholders on the chandelier that hung over the room, before pulling the chandelier down just a little bit from the ceiling.

The bizarre behavior spoke for itself when a section of the wall moved aside to reveal a passage, likely a failsafe in case Shady Sands came under some sort of attack and any Congressmen trapped in the room found themselves in need of an escape route.

Moore drove Arcade into the newly revealed room and almost sent him tumbling down the stairs before helping him to regain his balance by grabbing him by the shoulder.

Arcade was furious; aside from the obvious reasons, he was most upset because he didn't expect this, that the Republic, or even Kimball, could go so far. Not knowing what else there was to say, Arcade occupied his words with curses and shouts uncharacteristic of his temperament.

"Sorry, Mister Gannon; this room is soundproofed, you see, the walls have ears, and all!" Kimball called after Arcade casually.

The Heavy Troopers followed her down as the passage closed behind them, and Kimball was left alone in the room, continuing to smoke as Arcade's screams started to drift off into inaudibility as the group moved deeper into the passage.

Kimball, still nonchalant, reached for a phone that sat near him on the table, and started dialing almost smugly before placing the receiver to his ear. The call took far too long to get through; Kimball would have rather executed his "I did something that puts you at a disadvantage" oration sooner than later.

"Hello?" The voice on the receiving end of the call said as the call finally went through.

"Am I speaking to…"President" Masterson, and not just a bureaucrat?" Kimball asked begrudgingly.

Phil recognized the voice immediately; such self-importance could only be masked so deeply by political charm, and wasn't something soon forgotten- the oily hair, the white as snow teeth that seemed to float around whenever a smile was cracked, the tanned skin. To think this was a man whose life he'd once saved, a man with whom he could have been allies-alas, humans were bitter.

Once it was reflected upon, it was almost sad, really; men like Kimball had the courage to speak of values, to speak of how what they did was for the best and how everyone would benefit in the long run, and often times you wanted to believe them; hell, maybe some of them were so pathological about it that they really did believe what they were saying. But, ninety nine out of a hundred didn't have the courage to follow through in the end.

Regardless, what was more bothersome was the fact that Kimball was calling at all; Philip wasn't under the impression that they were on speaking terms, and this didn't sound like a "normal" drunken call of antagonism; the fact that Arcade was also currently on Kimball's turf also didn't bode well.

"What the hell do you want, Kimball?" Phillip responded after a moment of silence.

"I think I have something of yours."


End file.
